STUDIES 

IN 

FRANKNESS 


BV  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  PAGEANTRY  OF  LIFE 

A  BOOK  OF  SCOUNDRELS 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE 
THACKERAY 

LITERARY  PORTRAITS 

WILLIAM  PITT 

AMERICAN  SKETCHES 


of  /tin?.,  rimofc     snmc  fka/Q\cture  <\^.t^/ 

(pcrtuc    m^  ^^inj^   ^2^^  tfLcQJIind        ^W,  S. 


STUDIES 

IN 

FRANKNESS 

BY 

CHARLES   WHIBLEY 


NEW   YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  ^  CO. 

1912 


^ 


N. 


o 


<o 


^-^^ 


*IP 


^  ttgKtt^  r<}erhe'(i 


La  franchise  absolue,  moyen  d^originalite 

BAUDELAIRE 


241510 


/  desire  to  thank  the  Editors  and  Proprietors 
of  *  The  Nineteenth  Century,'  '  The  Tudor 
Translations,^  and  '  The  New  Review,'  as 
well  as  Messrs.  Methuen  and  Messrs.  Lawrence 
^  Bullen,  Ltd,,  for  their  courteous  permission 
to  reprint  the  chapters  of  this  book  which  have 
appeared  under  their  auspices. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION i 

PETRONIUS 27 

HELIODORUS 49 

LAURENCE  STERNE 79 

APULEIUS ,,5 

HERONDAS 143 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 161 

LUCIAN-I ig7 

LUCIAN— II 205 

SIR  THOMAS  URQUHART           ....  227 


INTRODUCTION 

WHEN  Adam  and  Eve  were  chased  from  a 
blameless  Paradise,  they  were  forced  to 
cover  that  which  it  had  never  been  a  dishonour  to 
reveal.  It  was  not  until  the  devil  murmured  in  the 
branches  that  a  knee  became  more  guilty  than  an 
eyebrow,  and  the  prophets  of  concealment  would  be 
wise  to  remember  that  the  reticence  which  they 
account  the  chief  of  virtues  was  the  first  penalty  paid 
by  guilty  man  to  an  enraged  deity.  Thus,  in  expia- 
tion of  the  primaeval  disobedience,  we  are  still  cursed 
or  blessed  with  a  shamefaced  diffidence  ;  we  are  com- 
pelled to  the  public  denial  of  many  truths  which  we 
acknowledge  in  secret ;  from  our  cradles  to  our  graves 
we  hide  behind  a  mask  of  prudent  discretion,  or  minc- 
ing chicanery ;  and  we  still  share  with  the  Puritan 
the  punishment  imposed  upon  the  world  by  Eve's 
complacency.  The  Puritan,  in  truth,  forgetting  the 
cause  of  his  modesty,  makes  righteousness  of  necessity, 
and  believes  that  in  prolonging  a  garment  or  blinking 
an  eye  he  is  doing  a  reputable  service  to  the  cause  of 
virtue.     But  he  is  only  bowing  his  neck  beneath  the 


2  STUDIES   IN   FKANKNESS 

inevitable  yoke  ;  he  is  only  bearing  his  part  in  the 
universal  condemnation. 

Though  reticence  was  our  first  and  heaviest  punish- 
ment, it  did  not  come  upon  us  w^ithout  compensations. 
The  mere  command  that  man  should  clothe  his  naked- 
ness was  sufficient  to  create  the  love  of  adornment  and 
its  attendant  vanity.  So  the  manifold  arts  of  dandyism 
and  coquetry  came  into  being  ;  and  man,  by  giving  a 
separate  colour  to  his  life,  distinguished  himself  from  the 
beasts  who  know  neither  ornament  nor  shame.  Then, 
also,  was  born  sin  ;  then  lawlessness,  which  hitherto 
had  recognised  vice  as  little  as  virtue,  became  law, 
and  parcelled  out  all  the  possible  actions  of  mankind 
into  right  and  wrong,  involving  the  pristine  simplicity 
in  unnumbered  complications.  Modesty  was  in- 
vented to  keep  pace  with  restraint ;  licence  dogged 
the  footsteps  of  obedience  ;  and  the  presence  of  death 
gave  man  his  first  lesson  in  the  value  of  life.  And 
with  sin  was  born  humour,  which  could  not  breathe 
in  a  perfect  Paradise — humour  which  sweetens  misery 
with  a  laugh,  and  sets  our  heaviest  misfortunes  in  a 
just  relation.  But,  that  the  new-made  sinners  might 
not  too  loudly  exult,  prudery  was  appointed  the  watch- 
dog of  humour,  and  it  is  from  the  tangled  combat  of 
these  opposites  that  wit  and  adventure,  joyousness  and 
romance,  come  forth  victorious. 

Life,  then,  whether  we  will  or  no,  preserves  its 
privacies  and  restraints,  which  have  grown  stronger 
by  tradition,  and  whose  imperious  sway  no  lover  of 
curiosity  will  resent.     Thus,  there  are  ordained  for  us 


INTRODUCTION  3 

a  thousand  intricate  rules,  in  obedience  to  which  we 
play  the  game  or  fight  the  battle  of  existence.  Nor 
are  they  irksome,  these  infringements  upon  our  liberty, 
since  life  is  made  interesting  by  prohibition,  and  since 
it  is  to  them  that  we  owe  our  morals,  our  manners, 
the  very  elegancies  of  human  conduct.  To  dream  or 
licence  with  equanimity  is  impossible.  The  most 
ardent  worshipper  of  the  red-cap  would  find  no 
pleasure  if  once  he  realised  his  vain  scheme  of 
freedom,  and  happily  the  force  of  tradition  is  still 
strong  enough  to  thwart  his  worst  intention.  But 
the  Puritan  has  applied  the  laws  of  life,  and  others  ten 
times  sterner,  to  the  art  of  literature,  so  that  words  are 
detected  in  flagrant  criminality,  and  poetry  has  become 
a  liveried  convict. 

The  confusion  of  literature  with  its  material  pos- 
sesses, like  many  another  vice,  the  dignity  of  age. 
Yet  its  inveteracy  is  no  palliation,  and  never  had  the 
vice  less  excuse  than  to-day,  when  the  last  subtlety  of 
the  art  should  be  understood.  Life,  in  its  many- 
coloured  relations,  and  in  all  its  restless  vicissitudes, 
is  the  proper  field  of  literature.  But  while  life  is 
governed  by  the  laws  of  habit  and  the  empire,  litera- 
ture bows  only  to  its  own  dictates.  Knowing  this 
single  restraint,  it  is  otherwise  untrammelled  as  free- 
dom itself;  and  he  who  would  throw  a  needless  chain 
upon  it  might  as  well  attempt  to  stem  the  torrent  or 
fetter  the  whirlwind.  But  the  hopelessness  of  an 
enterprise  seldom  deters  the  foolish,  and  from  the  very 
beginning    of  time  literature,  poor   innocent   litera- 


4  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

ture,  has  suffered  a  twofold  misunderstanding.  In  the 
first  place,  its  motive  has  been  tried  by  the  inexorable 
law  of  life ;  its  every  incident  has  been  scrutinised  by  the 
cross-eye  of  moral  censure  ;  and  each  reckless  Aristar- 
chus  has  asked  not  how  the  parts  perfect  the  whole, 
not  how  the  episodes  combine  to  a  proper  climax,  but 
whether  such  adventures  as  decorate  the  narrative 
might  enter  into  his  own  experience  without  a  pro- 
test. In  the  second  place,  the  creator  has  been  pil- 
loried for  the  sins  of  his  own  creatures.  "  Who 
drives  fat  oxen  must  himself  be  fat,"  and  he  who 
draws  the  character  of  a  tall  man  must  himself  overtop 
six  feet.  The  manifold  and  contradictory  virtues  and 
vices  which  give  life  and  variety  to  a  book  are  visited 
for  punishment  upon  one  devoted  head.  Heedless  of 
logic  or  common  sense,  forgetting  that  a  work  of  art 
— the  result  of  a  personality — is  still  impersonal,  the 
censorious  are  wont  to  endow  the  inventor  with  all  the 
attributes  of  all  his  characters.  Thus  Fielding  in  one 
aspect  is  as  brave  a  spark  as  Tom  Jones  himself,  in 
another  blameless  as  the  fair  Sophia  ;  and  you  shudder 
at  the  folly  which  would  make  Balzac  one  with  the 
heroic  world  of  passion  and  intrigue,  of  love  and 
terror,  of  spendthrift  extravagance  and  hard  economy, 
which  he  has  called  into  being. 

But  the  end  of  impertinence  is  not  yet  reached. 
The  Methodist  who  is  convinced  that  nothing  has  a 
right  to  exist  which  does  not  exercise  a  beneficial 
influence  upon  conduct,  has  framed  the  converse 
axiom    that    none    save    a    good    man    may    write    a 


INTRODUCTION  5 

good  book.  And  more  than  this  :  the  man  should 
be  good  with  the  Methodist's  own  particular  good- 
ness. He  must  be  prepared  to  wave  aloft  the 
flame-coloured  banner  of  the  conventicle,  and  his  life 
will  bear  instant  testimony  to  his  genius.  So  the 
Methodist  averting  his  eyes  from  poem  or  romance, 
turns  criticism  into  a  kind  of  indiscreet  biography. 
The  printed  page  need  say  nothing  to  him ;  he  is 
content  to  rake  in  the  dust-heap  of  the  past ;  and 
should  he  discover  the  compromising  evidence  of  one 
sin,  he  proceeds  to  a  judgment,  proud  in  the  conviction 
that  he  is  not  only  displaying  his  own  intelligence,  but 
is  conferring  a  distinguished  favour  upon  morality. 

Naught  else  remains  than  to  frame  definitions,  to 
fit  the  craft  of  letters  with  fantastic  titles,  or  to 
condemn  it  for  ever  as  an  Exponent  of  the  Ethical 
Life.  The  ethics,  uncovered  by  this  method  of 
criticism,  are  as  simple  as  the  field  is  narrow  ; 
but  the  zealot  consoles  himself  by  making  scandal 
a  check  upon  his  judgment,  and  by  proving  the 
dramas  of  Shakespeare  masterpieces  because  the 
writer  was  a  ''  kind  man."  The  pursuit,  indeed,  has 
a  charm  for  all  such  as  love  statistics,  but  even  the 
statistician  may  feel  a  pang  of  regret  when  an  acci- 
dental document  compels  him  to  revise  a  lifelong 
opinion  of  Shelley's  art  or  morals.  And  how  shall  he 
esteem  a  work  to  which  tradition  has  attached  no 
name  ?  To  him,  alas  !  the  Satiricon  must  be  a 
perpetual  puzzle,  since  no  ingenuity  can  disclose  the 
dossier  of  its  unknown  author.      But  this  perversity 


6  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

of  judgment,  which  involves  literature  in  inex- 
tricable confusion,  is  not  permitted  to  interrupt  the 
pursuit  of  humbler  trades.  Not  even  the  w^ildest 
enthusiast  would  condemn  a  boot  because  it  was  cut 
from  the  hide  of  a  vicious  animal,  or  because  the 
shoemaker  devoted  his  leisure  to  whisky  and  sedition. 

However,  when  once  the  censor  has  laid  a  heavy- 
hand  upon  literature,  he  is  not  induced  by  reason  to 
relinquish  his  grasp.  But  his  pertinacity  is  never 
aroused  to  understanding.  If  only  he  could  analyse 
his  displeasure,  he  might  discover  that  it  is  genius  not 
impropriety  that  repels  him.  His  reprobation  proceeds 
less  from  morality  than  from  lack  of  imagination. 
Incapable  of  disengaging  life  from  its  presentation,  he 
forms  an  instant  picture  of  the  written  word,  which 
he  straightway  charges  with  the  infamy  of  his  own 
distorted  vision.  And  first  with  an  energy  of  con- 
demnation he  would  exclude  from  the  privilege  of 
type  all  such  words  and  phrases  as  are  not  heard  at 
his  own  fireside.  Nor  could  he  pronounce  a  less 
apposite  judgment ;  since  between  the  written  lan- 
guage and  the  spoken  there  is  a  complete  divorce. 
It  is  by  an  accident  that  speech  and  literature 
employ  the  same  symbols,  and  a  formal  expression 
instantly  changes  the  value  of  the  common  currency. 
To  conversation  and  oratory  are  appointed  their  own 
rules,  while  literature  retains  a  special  freedom.  The 
tongue,  in  brief,  is  an  enemy  to  literary  expression, 
and  Cicero  showed  himself  keenly  sensitive  to  his  art, 
when,  having  composed  the  denunciation  of  Catiline 


INTRODUCTION  7 

in  his  study,  he  refrained  from  its  delivery.  Thus  it  is 
that  the  word  for  word  report  has  killed  the  possibility 
of  lasting  eloquence.  Time  was  when  the  orator 
translated  his  speech  from  the  language  of  the  voice 
to  the  language  of  ink  and  paper,  before  the  eye  of 
man  might  look  upon  it  j  to  produce  in  silence  the 
effect  of  sound  and  gesture,  another  phrase,  another 
style  are  necessary  ;  but  the  trick  of  shorthand  has 
baffled  his  art,  and  henceforth  there  will  be  speaking  in 
unrestrained  volubility,  but  no  persuasive  oratory  that 
will  Hve  in  the  closet. 

So  a  thousand  dishevelled  words,  which  the  primaeval 
ban  forbids  us  to  use  in  familiar  intercourse,  may  be  proper 
matter  for  literature.  These  libertines  of  speech  have 
a  value  which  does  not  depend  upon  the  ideas  which 
they  connote.  They  are,  so  to  say,  strong  notes  of 
colour  upon  the  printed  page,  and  their  use  is  controlled 
not  by  morals  but  by  taste.  Yet  it  is  not  given  to 
every  scribbler  to  open  the  door  to  an  indiscriminate 
rabble.  Frankness  is  the  privilege  of  genius  alone. 
Where  tone  and  style  permit,  and  where  courage 
comes  to  the  aid  of  invention,  there  are  few  things 
that  may  not  be  said  with  dignity  and  distinction. 
But  writers  there  are,  to  whom  no  freedom  is  per- 
mitted, in  whose  books  a  single  word,  innocuous 
elsewhere,  gives  you  a  shudder  of  disgust.  Rabelais, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  sovereign  of  himself.  With 
a  heartwhole  laugh  of  wisdom  he  purged  the  last 
grossness  of  offence.  Since  he  knew  all  things,  and 
with  a  perfect  humour  set  them  in  their  proper  places, 


8  STUDIES  IN   FRANKNESS 

no  door  was  closed  to  his  intrusion,  no  corner  secluded 
from  his  prying  eye.  He  might  thrust  his  rake  into 
the  worst  rubbish-heap  and  withdraw  it  unspotted 
from  the  contact.  Nor  are  you  surprised  that  he 
spent  his  life  in  reflective  taciturnity,  and  was  known 
to  his  contemporaries  for  a  dreamer. 

But  the  Puritan  is  not  content  with  sentencing  to 
outlawry  these  words,  for  which  his  starveling  soul  has 
no  employ.  A  grumble  is  still  heard  when  he  has 
replaced  outspokenness  by  a  clumsy  artifice  of  cere- 
monious delicacy.  He  would  also  sit  in  judgment 
upon  the  visions  which  literature  evokes,  upon  the 
fanciful  characters  she  portrays.  He  finds  the  poet 
wandering  in  a  paradise  of  license,  and  straightway  he 
would  drive  him  out,  bidding  him  cover  his  beautiful 
images  with  the  clout  of  shamefacedness.  This  in- 
tolerance has  never  fallen  short  of  its  opportunity,  and 
the  Puritan,  whose  censure  is  but  the  expression  of  a 
private  dislike,  pretends  that  he  is  fighting  the  cause  of 
the  people.  But  genius  does  not  "address  its  pen 
or  style  unto  the  people  whom  books  do  not  redress," 
and,  in  warning  the  illiterate  against  such  works  as 
they  are  doomed  to  misunderstand,  the  Puritan  does  but 
stimulate  an  unrighteous  pruriency.  For  the  illiterate 
have  no  concern  with  such  masterpieces,  as  might  un- 
cover to  their  eyes  the  hidden  places  of  the  earth. 
Content  to  feed  their  fancy  on  the  vulgar  novel,  they 
should  run  no  risk  from  the  contamination  of  genius. 
Yet  it  is  this  anxiety  for  the  people  which,  ever  since 
Plato,    has    been    the    worst    enemy    of   literature. 


INTRODUCTION  9 

As  the  savage  round  the  camp  fire  sings  his  song  of 
bravery  that  he  may  feed  the  warlike  spirit  of  his  tribe, 
so  Plato  saw  in  poetry  naught  but  a  means  of  fashioning 
good  citizens.  Strange  it  is  to  find  the  acute  philo- 
sopher ranged  on  the  side  of  the  ''  poor  Indian."  But 
Plato's  business  was  with  politics  rather  than  with 
literature,  and  (for  the  moment)  he  would  rather  have 
banished  all  poetry  from  the  perfect  city  of  his  imagina- 
tion than  have  endangered  the  morals  of  a  single  leather- 
seller.  Moreover,  the  poetry  of  Greece,  though  the 
highest  form  of  art,  was  still  intimately  related  to  the 
worship  of  the  gods,  and,  save  in  the  poet's  own 
esteem,  it  did  not  yet  exist  as  an  end  unto  itself. 
But  this  is  less  a  question  of  art  than  of  history,  and 
presently  Aristotle  came  to  the  aid  of  literature, 
declaring  that  pleasure  was  its  aim,  and  that  no 
poet  need  refrain  from  the  presentation  in  words  of 
such  things  as  in  life  are  painful  or  abhorrent. 

Literature,  then,  is  unconcerned  with  the  im- 
provement of  the  citizen,  or  the  welfare  of  the  state. 
A  thing  of  beauty,  it  knows  no  law  save  the  law  of  its 
own  embellishment.  It  sings  in  the  ear,  it  laughs  in 
the  brain.  It  has  the  touch  of  Midas  and  transmutes, 
with  happier  effect,  whatever  is  common  into  gold. 
The  ugly  in  life  instantly  changes  to  loveliness  at  its 
potent  wizardry.  The  pain  and  misery  of  Philoctetes 
are  informed  with  a  noble  majesty  when  once  they 
have  passed  into  the  verse  of  Sophocles.  "The 
Dean,"  said  Stella,  "  could  write  finely  about  a  broom- 
stick," and  thus,  unconsciously  maybe,  put  the  case  of 


10  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

artistic  freedom  in  an  epigram.  To  the  artist,  indeed, 
nothing  comes  amiss  if  only  his  treatment  justify  his 
choice.  The  unnoticed  corners  of  reality,  the  distant 
provinces  of  devilry  and  magic — he  is  free  of  them  all. 
His  world,  which  embraces  yet  transcends  the  narrow 
world  of  life,  knows  not  the  limits  which  are  set  upon 
the  hardiest  traveller.  And  if  he  will  he  may  envelop  his 
puppets  in  an  unknown  atmosphere.  He  may  lift  them 
to  a  table-land  where  all  things  have  a  different 
meaning,  where  the  literal  is  dead,  where  flagrancy  is 
humour,  where  only  the  inartistic  is  ugly.  Or  he  may 
imagine  a  country  where  the  ten  commandments  do 
not  run,  he  may  deftly  transpose  vice  and  virtue,  and 
he  may  do  it  with  so  invincible  a  joyousness  that  his 
fantasy  is  pure  of  offence.  But  into  this  gay  kingdom 
the  censor  with  his  prying  eye  may  never  penetrate  ; 
for  he  will  detect  in  its  flowers  the  iridescence  of  a 
stagnant  pool,  and  carry  away  a  legend  of  horrors  that 
he  has  never  seen.  He  will  turn  the  fairy  tale  ot 
Petronius  into  a  shameful  reality,  and  cavil  at  the 
shadow-land  of  Poe  because  he  finds  it  a  patent  outrage 
upon  nature.  He  will  recoil  from  whatever  is  frank 
and  outspoken  because  his  own  withered  tongue  can 
only  frame  the  catchwords  of  the  newspaper,  because 
his  discoloured  eye  perverts  merriment  and  sincerity 
into  evilness  of  speech  and  thought.  But  his 
persecution,  dangerous  though  it  be,  dies  with  his 
death,  and  is  remembered  only  in  the  contemptuous 
indignation  of  his  victim. 

So  romance,  poetry,  satire,  have  fought  the  double 


INTRODUCTION  ii 

battle  with  the  difficulties  of  their  art,  and  with  those 
enemies  who  would  limit  the  field  of  their  enterprise. 
Nor  have  their  enemies  been  constant  in  severity  save 
at  one  point.  Now  they  will  condemn  the  super- 
natural as  the  enemy  of  faith,  now  they  will  pro- 
nounce the  legends  of  brigandage  a  direct  incentive 
to  crime,  but  never  will  they  swerve  one  inch  from 
their  denunciation  of  "  passion  "  in  whatever  terms  it 
be  expressed.  For  them,  at  least,  the  unknown  is  not 
magnificent,  and  in  a  fury  of  hatred  they  resent  a 
reference  to  the  sentiment  which  can  never  be  theirs. 
With  as  clear  a  reason  might  they  cry  out  upon  a 
heroine  with  blue  eyes  or  red  hair  because  a  dark-eyed 
beauty  is  nearer  to  their  heart.  But  they  have  always 
fought  in  defiance  of  reason,  and  while  they  have 
changed  their  weapons  they  have  displayed  a  fierce 
persistence  in  the  combat.  Aristophanes,  who  tuned 
his  lyre  to  satire,  melody,  or  wit,  and  who  hid  the 
patriot  behind  a  mask  of  laughter,  was  fiercely 
attacked  in  his  own  lifetime,  and  still  appeared  coarse 
and  obscene  to  no  less  a  critic  than  Plutarch. 

But  it  was  Catullus,  hapless  lover  and  impeccable 
poet,  who  first  found  the  perfect  answer  to  his 
assailants.  With  an  energy  of  rage  he  destroyed 
Aurelius  and  Furius  who  dared  to  assume  his  character 
from  his  works,  and  who,  judging  his  verses  molliculos, 
would  denounce  the  writer  as  parum  pudicum.  His 
triumphant  answer  has  been  echoed  by  a  hundred  poets 
at  bay.  "  Nam  castum  esse,"  he  wrote,  with  superb 
dignity. 


12  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

"  Nam  castum  esse  decet  pium  poetam 
ipsum,  versiculos  nihil  necesse  est." 

And  neither  Ovid  nor  Martial*  could  wish  a 
better  defence,  while  our  own  Herrick  would  have 
placed  at  his  book's  end  a  translation  which  long  since 
became  classic  :  "Jocund  his  muse  was,  but  his  life 
was  chaste."  Thus  should  the  cavillers  be  silenced, 
though  the  chastity  of  a  poet's  life  does  but  little 
concern  them.  Thus  might  they  learn  to  avoid  a  uni- 
versal stumbling  block  were  they  not  beyond  guidance. 
Nor  were  the  poets  alone  in  the  public  displeasure. 
Romance  fell  eariy  under  the  curse ;  the  Milesian 
stories,  those  masterpieces  of  gaiety,  which,  destroyed 
by  popularity,  have  floated  down  to  us  on  the  stream 
of  memory  and  imitation,  were  esteemed  disgrace- 
ful even  by  the  Parthians  ;  and  there  is  no  more 
entertaining  criticism  in  ancient  literature  than 
the  anecdote  of  Surena's  hypocrisy,  as  related  by 
Plutarch.  It  is  thus  the  story  is  told  in  North's 
version :  f     "  Surena    having    called    the    Senate    of 

*  "Vita  verecunda  est,  musa  jocosa  mihi":  thus  Ovid,  and 
Martial  does  but  give  the  same  sentiment  another  turn:  "Las- 
civa  est  nobis  pagina,  vita  proba."  Pascal,  who  is  not  a  tainted 
witness,  finds  another,  and  a  more  liberal  comment  for  the  poet 
of  the  Epigrams :  "  L,'homme  airae  la  malignite,"  he  writes : 
"  mais  ce  n'est  pas  contre  les  borgnes,  ni  contre  les  malheureux, 
mais  contre  les  heureux  superbes  ;  on  se  trompe  autrement.  Car 
la  concupiscence  est  la  source  de  tons  nos  mouvements,  et 
I'humanite."  An  unexpected  judgment,  truly,  and  a  strange 
conjunction. 

t  The  Life  of  Crassus. 


INTRODUCTION  13 

Seleucia  together  layed  before  them  Aristides  book 
of  ribaldrie,  intituled  The  Milesians y  which  was  no  fable, 
for  they  were  found  in  a  Romanes  fardell  or  trusse, 
called  Rustius.  This  gave  Surena  great  cause  to 
scorne  and  despise  the  behaviour  of  the  Romanes, 
which  was  so  far  out  of  order,  that  even  in  the  warres 
they  could  not  refraine  from  doing  evill,  and  from  the 
reading  of  such  vile  books."  There  is  a  touch  of 
comedy  in  the  barbarian's  lofty  indignation  against  the 
levity  of  his  enemies,  who  beguiled  a  tedious  campaign 
with  the  best  of  light-hearted  literature.  But  still 
more  amusing  is  Plutarch's  comment.  "I  will  not 
deny,"  he  writes  with  a  cunning  respectability,  "  but 
Rustius  deserved  blame :  but  yet  withall,  I  say,  that 
the  Parthians  were  shamelesse  to  reprove  these  bookes 
of  the  vanities  of  the  Milesians,  considering  that 
many  of  their  kinges,  and  of  the  royal  blood  of  the 
Arsacides,  were  borne  of  the  Ionian  and  Milesian 
curtisans."  Was  there  ever  such  a  jumble  of  hypo- 
crisies ?  The  Romans  were  infamous  to  relieve  the 
serious  pursuit  of  war  with  a  jest-book.  So  far 
Surena  and  Plutarch  agree.  But  Surena,  says  Plu- 
tarch, was  debarred  from  objection  by  the  pedigree  of 
his  kings,  which  he  at  least  could  not  control,  and 
which  might  have  turned  the  royal  house  to  grave 
reflection.  Here  is  no  word  in  defence  of  Aristides 
and  his  fables ;  no  scorn  of  the  Parthian's  folly  ;  only 
a  jumbled  reprobation  of  accuser  and  accused.  Nor 
was  the  censure  of  Rustius  universal.  For  those  there 
were  who  believed  that  Surena  had  himself  put  The 


14  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Milesians  at  the  sack's  mouth,  thus  repeating  the 
trick  played  upon  the  innocence  of  Benjamin.  And 
Surena's  imposture  is  easily  credible,  since  many  a 
worse  artifice  has  been  contrived  in  the  name  of  an 
acrimonious  morality. 

Thus  at  all  times  austerity  has  resented  the 
pastime  of  the  sage.  Was  not  Heliodorus,  whose, 
worthy  intention  should  have  atoned  for  more  than 
his  innocent  freedom,  chased  from  his  bishopric  ? 
Had  Chaucer's  splendid  sincerity  any  better  chance  of 
escape  than  Boccaccio's  delicate  devices  ?  Has  not 
Shakespeare  been  judged  as  coarse  as  the  Classics  ?  Yet 
none  ever  so  conclusively  proved  that  "  to  the  pure  all 
things  are  impure"  as  Jeremy  Collier.  This  notorious 
nonjuror,  indeed,  resumed  in  his  single  talent  the 
prejudice  of  all  the  ages.  He  undertook  a  crusade 
against  the  theatre,  and  he  possessed  every  qualifica- 
tion which  the  task  demanded.  He  was  stupid, 
ignorant,  and  energetic.  Like  the  clown  at  a  country 
fair,  he  belaboured  all  the  talents  with  a  bladder 
tied  to  a  string,  and  so  long  as  his  blows  were 
sounding  he  cared  not  for  their  effect.  Gifted, 
moreover,  with  the  trick  of  advertisement,  he  made 
himself  a  far  greater  place  in  the  world  than  his  merit 
warranted.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  pestilent  fellow  that 
every  one  knew,  and  the  pillory  aiding,  he  won  a  large 
share  of  that  notoriety  which  appears  to  some  more 
gratifying  and  which  oftentimes  is  no  less  lasting 
than  legitimate  fame. 

His  moral  arrogance  was  prodigious;   never  had  a 


INTRODUCTION  15 

corrupt  universe  known  so  splendid  a  castigation  ;  and 
the  esteem  of  his  contemporaries  fell  but  little  short  of 
his  own  pride.  Congreve  paid  him  the  extravagant 
compliment  of  a  reply,  and  Dryden  (from  indolence, 
let  us  hope)  was  driven  to  submission.  Yet  beyond  an 
occasional  vigour  of  phrase  and  an  immense  peevish- 
ness the  man  possessed  no  quality  of  taste  or  intelli- 
gence. So  deeply  was  he  absorbed  in  fault-finding, 
where  no  fault  was,  that  reason  and  justice  were  out  of 
his  reach.  A  casual  familiarity  with  the  Classics  merely 
led  him  still  further  astray,  and  he  is  prepared  to 
applaud  the  blaspheming  of  Euripides,  for  instance, 
because  that  poet  directed  his  assault  against  paganism, 
and  never  struck  a  blow  at  the  orthodoxy  of  a  non- 
juror !  "  When  Pegasus  is  jaded,"  he  wrote  at  the 
beginning  of  his  tract,  "  and  would  stand  still,  he  is  apt 
like  other  Tits  to  run  into  every  puddle."  And  truly 
Jeremy  Collier's  own  was  a  jaded  Tit,  for  she  is  never 
out  of  the  mire. 

Armed  with  a  false  definition,  he  easily  demolishes 
the  whole  fabric  of  modern  literature.  "The 
business  of  plays,"  says  he,  "is  to  recommend  virtue 
and  discountenance  vice ; "  and  whenever  he  finds 
the  drama  of  his  age  falling  short  of  this  ideal, 
he  is  transported  with  rage.  Wit  and  humour,  gaiety 
of  invention,  the  necessity  of  amusement — these  are 
nothing  to  him.  He  will  confuse  the  playhouse  with 
the  pulpit,  and  attack  all  the  poets  with  equal  folly 
and  brutality.  They  are  obscene,  says  he  ;  they  are 
blasphemous  ;    therefore   away   with   them   all   from 


i6  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Shakespeare  to  Tom  D'Urfey.  Hamlet's  author, 
indeed,  comes  ofF  badly  from  the  trial.  "  He  is  too 
guilty,"  writes  the  censorious  Collier,  ''  to  make  an 
evidence  ;  but  I  think  he  gains  not  much  by  his 
misbehaviour."  Assuredly  he  profits  not  at  all  from 
the  pulpit's  point  of  view.  And  again :  "  Phedra 
keeps  her  modesty  even  after  she  had  lost  her  wits. 
Had  Shakespeare  secured  this  Point  for  his  young 
Virgin  Ophelia,  the  play  had  been  better  contrived." 
Did  ever  lack  of  humour  drive  a  man  into  greater 
folly  ?  Ophelia  spotless  !  Why  not  Hamlet  sane  ? 
But  Collier  is  unable  to  distinguish  between  his  own 
world  and  the  stage,  that  kingdom  of  paste-board  and 
plank,  where  language  assumes  a  separate  meaning, 
and  where  the  sea  coast  of  Bohemia  is  authentic  as 
London  Bridge.  So  having  laid  it  down  most 
properly  that  to  swear  before  women  is  not  only 
a  breach  of  good  behaviour  but  a  most  unchristian 
practice,  he  is  ready  to  abolish  all  plays,  within  the 
limits  of  whose  five  acts  a  single  oath  is  heard. 
''  A  well-bred  man,"  he  declares  with  evident  truth, 
"  will  no  more  swear  than  fight  in  the  Company  of 
Ladies,"  and  if  he  were  logical,  he  would  perforce  have 
condemned  the  alarums  and  excursions  of  Shakespeare 
as  so  many  outrages  upon  good  manners. 

But  it  is  blasphemy  which  tempts  him  to  his 
highest  flights.  "  Sometimes,"  he  exclaims  in  the  very 
climax  of  his  denunciation,  "  sometimes  they  don't  stop 
short  at  blasphemy."  The  offence  is  scarce  credible, 
and   the   instances  which   this    nonjuror    is   able   to 


INTRODUCTION  17 

quote  are  warranted  to  send  a  thrill  of  horror  through 
the  most  hardened  atheist.  Think  of  the  naked 
levity  of  Lady  Froth,  who  calls  Jehu  a  hackney 
coachman  !  And  the  monstrous  profanation  of  the 
author  who  dared  to  give  his  Sir  Sampson  Legend  the 
name  of  that  hero  who  triumphed  over  the  Philistines  ! 
In  spite  of  the  p  a  covert  attack  upon  the  Christian 
faith  is  evident,  and  one  shudders  to  think  what  had 
become  of  England  without  the  timely  intervention  of 
Jeremy  Collier.  But  the  worst  is  not  yet  told.  Vain- 
love,  in  The  Old  Bachelour^  asks  Belmour  if  he  could 
be  content  to  go  to  heaven.  To  Vainlove  only  one 
answer  was  possible.  But  did  he  give  it  ?  Oh,  dear 
no  !  With  the  shameful  flippancy  of  the  stage  he 
replied:  "  Hum,  not  immediately  in  my  conscience,  not 
heartily."  And  nowhere  does  Collier  prove  his  moder- 
ation more  nobly  than  in  his  comment  upon  this 
monstrous  wickedness.  Here  indeed  was  an  oppor- 
tunity for  pious  wrath,  but  with  a  perfect  reserve 
he  stays  the  tide  of  reproach.  "This  is  playing,  I  take 
it,  with  edged  tools."  These  are  his  very  words,  and 
yet  one  would  have  thought  that  the  impious  Belmour 
had  forfeited  all  his  lingers  ! 

Such  is  the  man  who  presumed  to  detect  the  seven 
deadly  sins  and  seventy-seven  others  in  the  works 
of  Congreve  !  He  might  as  easily  have  sought  crime 
in  a  lace-frilled  shirt  or  a  satin  coat.  The  cold, 
intellectual  presentation  of  life  which  we  get  in  the 
incomparable  Way  of  the  World  possesses  wit,  alert- 
ness, repartee,  all  the  graces  of  spirited  converse,  but  it 

B 


i8  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

possesses  nothing  else.  The  world,  whose  way  Con- 
greve  pictures,  is  a  world  which  Jeremy  Collier  never 
could  have  penetrated.  For  its  gates  are  shut  against 
the  dullard  and  the  pedant.  Its  inhabitants  are  not 
controlled  by  the  laws  which  run  outside  the  chartered 
domain.  It  is,  in  truth,  an  Abbaye  deTheleme  where 
the  sole  restriction  is  ''  what  you  will ; "  and  no  man 
can  understand  its  merriment  who  does  not  first  put  off 
the  superstitions  of  an  interested  piety.  The  actions, 
performed  within  its  borders,  are  judged  neither  by 
their  motive  nor  their  result,  but  rather  by  the  method 
and  style  of  their  performance. 

In  brief,  the  Artificial  Comedy  has  no  contact  with 
actuality.  You  may  pass  it  by  in  dislike  if  you  will, 
but  you  may  not  set  it  in  the  dock  prepared  for  the 
criminal's  reception.  Charles  Lamb,  the  most  inven- 
tive critic  of  our  stage,  pierced  the  mystery  with  a 
flash,  and  his  luminous  paradox  is  no  paradox  at  all. 
Given  the  proper  atmosphere,  and  Joseph  Surface  is 
a  hero,  if  only  he  bear  himself  with  a  magnificent 
levity.  As  for  Jeremy  Collier,  he  made  no  attack  upon 
Congreve,  because  he  understood  not  one  line  of  that 
master's  composition.  He  thought  he  knew  one  lan- 
guage j  his  victim  wrote  another.  And  the  fact  that 
Congreve  deemed  it  a  gentleman's  duty  to  reply  to  such 
a  tangle  of  impertinence  is  a  sad  comment  upon  the 
England  that  was  governed  by  William  of  Orange.  But 
the  insult  to  Congreve  was  not  Collier's  last  offence. 
So  hopeless  was  the  confusion  of  this  befogged  Puritan, 
that  he  condemned  Juvenal  for  all  the  sins  lashed  in  his 


INTRODUCTION  19 

satire,     "He  writes   more  like  a  pimp  than  a  poet^*^ 

said  he  with  accustomed  elegance "  Such  nau^ 

seous  stuff  is  almost  enough  to  debauch  the  alphabet, 
and  make  the  language  scandalous."  Why  did  he  not 
go  one  step  further,  and  saddle  the  intrepid  Jeremy 
with  all  the  vices  of  obscenity  and  profanation  which 
he  ascribed  without  thought  or  reason  to  his  betters  ? 

But  Jeremy  Collier  not  only  enjoyed  the  admiration 
of  his  age ;  he  is  still  regarded  as  a  literary  Her- 
cules who  cleansed  the  dramatic  stable  of  its  filth. 
And  never  since  have  zealots  been  lacking  to  carry  on 
his  work  of  obfuscation  and  stupidity.  The  appear- 
ance of  a  masterpiece  is  sufficient  to  render  the  blood- 
hounds restless  in  their  leash.  No  sooner  was  Madame 
Bovary  printed  in  the  pages  of  a  review  than  imperial 
France  shuddered  for  her  virtue.  The  author  was 
thrust  with  his  publisher  in  the  dock,  and  the  argu- 
iments  paraded  against  them  are  but  an  iteration  of 
Jeremy  Collier's  fallacies.  "  Gentlemen,"  said  the 
prosecuting  counsel,  doubtless  with  a  majestic  wave  of 
his  honest  hand,  "  Gentlemen,  did  Madame  Bovary 
love  her  husband,  or  did  she  even  try  to  love  him  ?  " 
Thus  the  game  of  cross-questions  and  crooked  answers 
was  played,  as  it  will  be  played  another  thousand  times  ; 
thus  literature  was  clipped  again  to  the  petty  standard 
of  the  hour.  On  either  side  the  discussion  was  in- 
apposite. The  attack  pronounced  the  book  a  glorifica- 
tion of  adultery ;  the  defence,  unyielding  in  folly, 
discovered  in  its  pages  a  treatise  upon  education.  And 
Tlaubert — where  was  he  in  this  genial  interchange  of 


lo  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

absurdities  ?  He  had  written  a  great  book  :  wherefore 
he  was  disgraced,  and  his  escape  from  justice  was  a 
miraculous  accident. 

Baudelaire  fared  worse  ;  he  was  tried,  and  he  was 
condemned.  Accused  of  all  the  crimes  suggested  by 
his  poetry,  he  would  have  been  for  ever  silenced  had  the 
rage  of  the  crowd  prevailed  against  him.  But  never 
once,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  did  he  "  confuse  ink  with 
virtue  ; "  never  once  did  he  accept  the  foolish  verdict 
of  the  rabble.  When  the  trial  was  finished  a  friend 
asked  him  if  he  had  expected  acquittal.  "  Acquitte  !  "" 
he  replied;  '* j'attendais  qu'on  me  ferait  reparation 
d*honneur."  Yet  he  knew  no  reparation,  save  the 
esteem  of  poets,  and  the  ultimate  restoration  of  his 
criminal  works.  Nevertheless  he  recoiled  not  from  the 
popular  verdict.  He  saw  clearly  the  bedevilment  of  his 
enemies,  and  was  content.  "  Chaste  as  paper,"  he 
wrote,  "  sober  as  water,  eager  for  devotion  as  a  com- 
municant, inoffensive  as  a  martyr,  I  am  not  displeased 
to  masquerade  as  a  monster  of  debauchery,  a  drunkard,  a 
blasphemer  and  an  assassin."  And  in  this  noble  pride 
of  spirit  he  forgot  the  wanton  insult  to  his  genius, 
and  by  this  the  world  is  forgetting  it  also. 

So  the  magistrate  would  usurp  the  world  of 
intelligence,  and  cramp  genius  to  fit  his  own  Pro- 
crustean code,  believing  that  a  supremacy  in  the  courts 
endows  him  with  the  control  of  imagination.  But 
the  triumph  of  to-day  becomes  the  disgrace  of  to- 
morrow, and  prays  for  oblivion.  On  the  one  side 
are  arrayed  "  the  dissembling  and  counterfeit  saints. 


INTRODUCTION  it 

demure  lookers,  hypocrites,  pretended  zealots,  rough 
friars,  buskin  monks,  and  other  such  sects  of  men 
who  disguise  themselves  like  maskers  to  deceive  the 
world."  On  the  other  side  fight  the  honest  fellows, 
lovers  of  merriment  and  all  good  things,  the  frank, 
the  free,  the  courageous,  who  esteem  beauty  above 
prejudice,  and  who  know  that  there  are  a  thousand 
kingdoms  whereof  the  magistrate  does  not  dream.  And 
if  for  a  while  the  magistrate  has  his  way,  they  win  who 
deserve  the  victory.  For  frankness  at  the  last  con- 
quers its  opponents,  and  though  its  champions  fall  by 
the  way  the  cause  knows  not  the  ignominy  of  ultimate 
failure-  In  truth  it  is  frankness  not  "immorality," 
which  the  people  fear — frankness  in  whatever  guise 
it  presents  itself.  Now,  it  is  the  frankness  of  revela- 
tion that  is  condemned,  that  spirit  of  curiosity  which 
would  uncover  all  things  to  the  lantern  of  art  j 
now,  it  is  the  frankness  of  intelligence  which  is 
thrust  into  prison,  that  frankness  which  would  tell  \/ 
the  truth  even  in  the  face  of  the  ballot-box.  So  it 
was  that  Edgar  Poe  fell  upon  misfortune.  Not  con- 
tent with  picturing  new  worlds  of  fancy  and  humour, 
not  content  with  winning  the  realm  of  mystery  for 
literature,  he  did  not  shrink  from  speaking  out  to  a 
country  submerged  in  commerce,  and  miserably  he  paid 
the  penalty  of  his  misdeeds.  Had  he  not  been  a  critic, 
to  whom  prevarication  was  a  cardinal  sin,  America  in 
her  pride  might  have  called  him  blessed,  and  rewarded 
him  with  her  opulent  approval.  But  a  habit  of  can- 
dour persuaded  him  to  tell  his  countrymen  the  truth^ 


a        Studies  in  frankness 

and  he  fell  a  victim  to  the  common  hatred  which 
might  in  another  hemisphere  have  ruined  Congreve 
and  Baudelaire. 

But  license,  also,  must  obey  the  laws  of  its  being, 
the  more  stringent,  because  an  infraction  leads  to  the 
greater  infamy.  And  thus  we  contemplate  the  other 
side  of  the  question.  The  lighthearted  and  sincere 
remain  beyond  reproach,  so  long  as  they  find  their 
justification  in  literature,  so  long  as  they  are  enveloped 
in  the  strange  atmosphere  and  live  in  the  false  world 
of  romance.  But  once  they  reveal  their  purpose,  once 
they  smile  self-consciously  at  their  own  bravery,  they 
are  detestable.  If  the  obscene  be  sentimental,  if  it 
address  itself  to  any  other  than  the  artistic  sense,  it  is 
instantly  condemned.  There  is  no  essential  differ- 
ence between  the  Marquis  de  Sade  and  the  leader 
of  a  revival  meeting.  Each  attempts  to  arouse  a  false 
sentiment  by  illicit  means  ;  each  would  hit  its  victim 
below  the  belt  of  reason.  In  either  case  no  appeal 
is  made  to  the  intelligence.  The  maniac,  whether  he 
be  pornagraphist  or  preacher,  is  anxious  to  do  some- 
thing, good  or  bad  ;  and  this  very  anxiety  to  "  do 
something "  renders  him  suspect.  But  it  is  not  the 
magistrate  who  may  play  the  critic;  it  is  the  critic 
who  should  play  the  magistrate.  For  the  right  and 
wrong  of  literature  must  be  decided  by  the  law,  not 
of  the  land  but  of  taste.  Rabelais,  if  he  have  the 
mind,  is  free  of  the  world's  vocabulary  ;  Dunbar, 
when  he  would  flyte  an  enemy,  may  decorate  his 
speech  with  what  exotic  flowers  he  can  find  in  his 


INTRODUCTION  23 

fancy's  hedgerow.  But  when  the  realist,  with  no 
better  excuse  than  to  satisfy  his  pedantry,  collects  a 
heap  of  dull  ir relevancies,  then  he  pleads  guilty  to 
impropriety.  For  he  offends  not  against  morality, 
but  against  the  law  of  his  art.  Accuracy  is  but  a 
poor  defence  for  the  scrupulous  ugliness  of  his  choice. 
"  Not  to  know  that  a  hind  has  no  horns,"  said 
Aristotle,  "is  a  less  serious  matter  than  to  paint  it 
inartistically."  And  the  realist  who  defends  himself 
from  attack  on  the  plea  of  truth,  advances  an  argu- 
ment which  does  not  concern  his  offence.  For  his 
is  not  a  sin  of  outspokenness  j  he  errs  in  the  resolu- 
tion to  unveil  secresies,  which  are  merely  shocking 
because  they  are  foreign  to  the  purpose  of  his  romance. 
Briefly  he  is  no  worse  than  tiresome  ;  yet  he  owes  his 
notoriety  to  the  general  advertisement  that  he  is  as 
daring  as  Rabelais,  as  unfettered  in  his  fancy  as 
Petronius  himself 

And  what  of  the  crooked  man,  who  always  detects 
the  immorality  of  his  brother  ?  For  him,  indeed, 
shall  no  excuse  be  found.  His  purpose  is  more  in- 
famous than  the  worst  sentimentality,  and  none  has 
rightly  appreciated  him  save  Rabelais,  his  secular 
enemy.  "  Fly  from  these  men,"  said  Alcofribas  ; 
*'  abhor  and  hate  them  as  much  as  I  do,  and  upon 
my  faith  you  will  find  yourselves  the  better  for  it." 
Furius  and  Aurelius  are  their  companions ;  Jeremy 
Collier  and  the  persecutors  of  Baudelaire  fight  dis- 
loyally by  their  side.  And  to-day,  their  heirs  stand  at 
every  street-corner,  scratching  an  advertisement  from 


24  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

the  revelation  of  somebody  else's  "  impurity."  How 
well  you  know  them,  and  their  trick  of  cunning 
abnegation  !  If  they  do  give  their  time  to  the  reading 
of  books,  it  is  not  to  enjoy  them,  but  rather  to  hurt  the 
author  by  some  mischievous  contrivance.  Their  sin- 
cerity is  as  doubtful  as  their  wisdom  ;  at  the  best  they 
can  only  attract  the  attention  of  the  prurient  to  that 
which  he  would  never  have  found  without  guidance  j 
and  as  they  are  wont  to  strip  their  enemy  of  his  wit 
before  they  crucify  him,  they  alone  may  achieve  the 
harm  whereof  they  would  convict  others. 

In  truth,  to  quote  the  inspired  aphorism  of  Pascal, 
"  Few  men  can  speak  of  chastity  chastely."  And  in 
these  words  is  condemned  not  only  the  censorious 
guardian  of  his  brother,  but  that  unhappy  novelist 
who  would  cover  his  freedom  with  a  purpose.  There 
is  not,  and  there  can  never  be,  any  legitimate  purpose 
in  print  save  pleasure  and  delight,  so  that  he  who  would 
hide  his  art  behind  the  broken  wall  of  moral  ex- 
cellence is  instantly  suspected  of  foul  play.  When 
once  another  intention  be  admitted  than  the  awakening 
of  sense  or  intelligence,  "moral"  or  "immoral"  matters 
not  a  jot.  Guilt  is  confessed  in  the  "  purpose,"  and 
thereafter  the  smallest  latitude  is  an  outrage  upon 
taste.  And  so  powerful  is  this  cant  of  shameful  latitude 
condoned  by  irrelevant  aspiration,  that  the  future  will 
not  easily  escape  its  tyrannical  restriction.  But  the  past 
at  any  rate  holds  a  treasury  of  masterpieces,  open  and 
unashamed,  which  need  no  concealment  for  their 
dignity  or  their  courage.      So  we  may  still  enjoy  a 


INTRODUCTION  25 

library  which  arouses  the  fury  and  defies  the  censure 
of  the  Puritan.  Nor  is  there  any  need  to  close  it 
against  the  scrutiny  of  peeping  eyes.  For  genius 
has  locked  it,  and  only  intelligence  may  turn  the 
releasing  key. 


PETRONIUS 


PETRONIUS 


THE  twin  enemies  of  wit — Prudery  and  Pedantry 
— have  for  centuries  obscured  the  proper  under- 
standing of  Petronius.  A  chance  passage  in  Tacitus, 
with  the  superfluous  confusion  of  a  name,  long  since 
convinced  the  scholar  that  the  Satiricofi  was  a  pamph- 
let designed  for  the  castigation  of  Nero,  and,  when 
resemblance  was  lacking,  a  twisted  ingenuity  caught 
glimpses  of  the  dashing  Emperor  in  a  common  ruffler, 
a  grizzled  poet,  in  the  obscene  extravagant  Trimalchio 
himself.  And  while  the  Pedant  was  busy  torturing  a 
masterpiece  out  of  shape,  the  Prude  averted  his  eyes 
in  horror  lest  a  spark  of  brilliant  impurity  should 
dazzle  him  into  blindness.  But  the  fear  of  the  Prude 
is  as  groundless  as  the  conjecture  of  the  Pedant.  The 
Satiricon  takes  note  neither  of  history  nor  of  morals  ; 
it  is  as  remote  from  ethics  as  from  familiarity.  It  bids 
avaunt  both  the  hungry  persons,  whose  inappeasable 
maw  is  always  avid  of  moral  sustenance,  and  the 
sorry  scholars,  who  would  leave  no  jest  without  its 
commentary.  Petronius,  in  brief,  speaks  only  to  the 
sincere  and   the  well-disposed  ;    he  says   no  word    to- 


30  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

those  miscreants  who  would  overwhelm  wit  and  gaiety 
with  an  infamous  suspicion. 

The  Satiricon  has  one  restraining  motive  :  enter- 
tainment within  the  bounds  of  art.  To  other  fetters 
it  is  as  resentful  as  the  winds  or  sea.  Not  even  the 
learned  Teuton,  who  discovered  its  controlling  subject 
to  be  the  wrath  of  Priapus,  was  justified  of  his  wit. 
Ingenious  as  is  the  fancy,  it  still  lays  too  heavy  a 
chain  upon  this  wayward,  irresponsible  Odyssey.  No 
more  can  be  said  than  that  the  work  of  Petronius  is  a 
prose  epic,  the  epic  (if  you  will)  of  the  beggar  student. 
Though  we  know  it  only  in  fragments  we  are  confi- 
dent that  its  end  was  as  gay  a  hazard  as  its  beginning  : 
it  opened  as  its  author  chose,  it  closed  in  obedience  to 
the  same  imaginative  will.  The  bland  childhood  of 
the  world  thrilled  at  the  epic  as  Homer  knew  it :  the 
austere  nobility  of  men  who  were  half  gods,  and  of 
gods  who  were  wholly  men,  delighted  the  temper  of 
those  too  simple  to  take  other  than  a  large  view. 
Even  Virgil,  with  a  more  conscious  art,  captured  an 
audience  of  worshippers,  but  with  him  died  the  love 
of  grandiose  types  and  giant  machinery.  An  age 
which  was  curious  and  introspective  demanded  an 
observation  which  was  more  precise,  more  personal ; 
and  Petronius,  choosing  prose  for  his  medium,  a  prose 
which  was  lightened  by  incomparable  interludes  of 
verse,  threw  a  gossamer  bridge  from  the  old  world  to 
the  new.  Call  it  what  you  will — epic  or  romance — 
set  over  it  whatever  deity  satisfies  your  whim — 
Fortuna  or  Priapus — the  Satiricon  is  the  gayest,  the 


PETRONIUS  31 

most  light-hearted  invention  which  ever  revolutionised 
the  taste  and  the  aspiration  of  an  epoch. 

Its  heroes  are  beggars  all,  beggars  draggle-tailed  and 
out-at-elbows.  No  worse  ruffians  than  the  immortal 
trio — Encolpios,  Ascyltos,  and  Giton — ever  took  to 
the  highway.  They  knew  neither  finery  nor  self- 
respect  ;  to-morrow's  goal  was  as  far  from  them  as  a 
life's  ambition.  They  wandered  under  the  sun,  or 
sought  the  discreet  encouragement  of  the  stars  with 
that  easy  conscience  which  comes  of  undetected 
villainy.  Home  was  as  strange  to  them  as  a  change 
of  linen  ;  they  journeyed  from  inn  to  inn  ;  and  they 
were  lucky  if,  after  an  evening's  debauch,  they  found 
their  resting-place,  or  escaped  a  brawl  and  a  beating. 
When  Encolpios  lost  himself  in  the  market-place  of 
some  nameless  city,  he  provoked  a  beldame  to  laughter 
with  the  polite  question  :  "  Do  you  know  where  I 
have  found  a  lodging  for  the  night  ?  "  And  after  the 
memorable  feast  at  the  house  of  their  patron,  Trimal- 
chio,  fuddled  with  wine  and  luxury,  they  would  have 
lost  their  unaccustomed  way  had  not  the  cunning 
Giton  blazed  the  posts  which  should  lead  to  their 
retreat.  Oftentimes,  too,  when  they  crawled  back 
from  some  masterpiece  of  wickedness,  they  knew  no 
rest  but  fisticuffs.  "Are  you  drunk  or  runaways  ?  " 
asked  the  landlord  on  a  celebrated  occasion,  and  there 
followed  a  frantic  duel  between  an  earthen  jar  and  a 
wooden  candlestick.  No  trick  of  gain,  no  weapon  of 
offence  came  amiss  to  the  miscreants  ;  and  thus  they 
robbed  and  fought  through  the  breadth  and  length  of 


32  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Southern  Italy.  When  they  had  money  they  sewed 
it  into  the  seams  of  a  threadbare  tunic,  and  when  they 
had  none  they  made  not  the  smallest  scruple  of 
theft. 

Nowhere  did  they  encounter  a  luckier  adventure 
than  at  the  nocturnal  market.  They  had  had  the  ill- 
luck  to  lose  their  whole  fortune  in  a  wood,  that 
fortune  which  was  stitched  into  an  ancient  garment. 
But,  in  revenge,  they  had  stolen,  these  beggar  students, 
an  elegant  and  valuable  mantle.  No  sooner  had  they 
entered  the  forum,  under  the  safeguard  of  night,  than 
they  met  a  ruffian  with  their  lost  tunic  on  his  back, 
and,  creeping  behind  the  thief,  they  presently  dis- 
covered that  their  little  hoard  lurked  safe  within  the 
seams.  Encolpios,  himself  red-handed,  was  for  having 
the  law  of  the  offender  ;  but  Ascyltos,  who  more 
prudently  trembled  at  the  sight  of  a  policeman,  gave 
his  vote  for  strategy.  "  Let  us  buy  back  the  treasure," 
said  he,  "  rather  than  embroil  ourselves  in  a  trouble- 
some suit."  But  unhappily  two  small  pieces  alone 
were  left  in  the  locker,  and  these  were  destined  for  the 
purchase  of  pulse,  that  hunger  might  be  deferred 
another  day.  So  there  was  naught  for  it  but  the  sale 
of  the  stolen  mantle.  Straightway  they  displayed 
their  treasure  to  the  admiration  of  the  crowd  :  but  it 
was  instantly  recognised,  and  the  ominous  shout  of 
"  Thieves  !  thieves ! "  was  raised.  The  brazen 
adventurers  flung  down  their  prize,  and  avowed  them- 
selves willing  to  take  in  exchange  the  battered  tunic. 
Thereupon   a   brace   of   hungry  lawyers   intervened. 


PETRONIUS  33 

urging  the  sequestration  of  tunic  and  mantle,  but  a 
scoundrel  who  hung  about  the  courts  clung  to  the 
more  splendid  garment,  and  our  adventurers  managed 
to  smuggle  the  ragged  tunic  to  their  lodging. 

Thus  they  wander  the  world  up  and  down,  blatant 
and  unashamed.  There  is  no  disaster  but  falls  upon 
their  back;  yet  they  make  light  of  all  things  with  an 
imperturbable  serenity,  and  leap  lightly  from  crime  to 
crime.  They  account  no  dishonour  too  heavy  to  be 
borne  ;  they  are  flogged  and  outraged  at  every  turn  ; 
but  the  chance  of  a  meal  or  of  a  full  pocket  heartens 
them  at  once,  and  they  are  quick  indeed  to  forget  an 
insult.  Careless  as  they  are,  indifferent  as  they  pro- 
fess themselves  to  the  misery  of  the  morrow,  ill  luck 
pursues  them  with  a  persistent  and  tireless  devotion. 
When  to  escape  from  a  present  evil  they  go  on  ship- 
board, it  is  not  surprising  that  they  find  themselves 
face  to  face  with  Lichas  and  Tryphaena,  the  prime 
authors  of  their  misfortune.  No  disguise  is  effectual 
against  their  enemies.  They  shave  their  heads  and 
eyebrows,  onlj  to  disturb  the  superstition  of  a  seasick 
passenger,  who  denounces  them  for  the  unlawful  act 
of  clipping  their  hair,  when  the  winds  and  waves  are 
at  variance.  Instantly  Lichas  recognises  them  by 
their  voices,  and  heaven  knows  what  would  have  been 
the  embroilment,  had  not  shipwreck  interrupted  a 
thousand  threats  of  suicide,  reconciliation,  and  revenge. 

And  who  are  they,  these  marvellous  beggars, 
whom  Petronius  bade  to  tramp  from  Cumae  to 
Naples,  and  then  transported  over  sea  to  the  hapless 

c 


34  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Crotona  ?  Blackguards  and  scholars  all.  First  there 
is  Encolpios,  upon  whose  tongue  the  narrative  is 
hung,  a  scoundrel  apt  for  any  cheat,  for  any  effrontery. 
He  is  the  cleverest  and  pluckiest  of  a  craven  crew. 
His  villainy  is  checked  by  no  scruple  of  conscience  or 
tradition.  His  virtue — if  he  ever  knew  it — is  torn, 
like  his  coat,  into  ribbons.  His  life  has  been  passed  in 
many  a  dishonest  shift  -,  once  he  was  a  gladiator  (so 
says  his  friend),  but  he  escaped  from  the  arena,  and 
thereafter  murdered  his  host,  who  had  shown  him 
naught  save  kindness.  What  wonder  is  it,  then, 
that  he  finds  himself  a  fugitive  and  an  outlaw  in  a  far 
city  of  Magna  Graecia  ?  What  wonder  is  it  that 
his  chosen  companions  are  the  victims  of  nameless 
vice  and  unutterable  crime  ?  Once,  in  his  sordid 
career,  this  pillager  of  temples,  this  breaker  of  friendly 
houses,  sits  and  deplores  his  fate  in  an  access  of 
genuine  remorse.  But  it  is  not  his  wickedness  that 
irks  him  :  upon  that  he  would  smile  and  smile  and 
be  content.  He  regrets  only  that  he  is  deserted  by 
the  execrable  Giton,  and  presently,  buckling  his  sword 
at  his  side,  he  rushes  into  the  street  intent  upon 
vengeance.  No  sooner,  however,  is  he  abroad  than  a 
soldier  confronts  him,  demanding  the  name  of  his 
legion  and  his  centurion.  And  the  ready  lie  that 
leaps  to  Encolpios'  lips  might  have  saved  him  had  he 
not  been  shod  like  a  Greek.  "  Do  the  soldiers  wear 
shoes  in  your  army  ?  "  asks  the  guardian  of  the  peace, 
bidding  the  ragamuffin  lay  down  his  arms.  And 
Encolpios,  who  dares  as  much  as  any  man  this  side 


PETRONIUS  35 

cowardice,  sorrowfully  obeys.  For  even  under  the 
happiest  circumstances  he  is  a  miracle  of  poltroonery. 
When  Habinnas,  the  freedman,  enters  Trimalchio's 
banqueting  hall,  Encolpios  takes  him  for  a  praetor,  and 
shudders,  in  his  cups,  at  the  imagined  majesty  of  law. 
At  sight  of  the  infamous  Quartilla  he  turns  colder 
than  a  winter  in  Gaul,  and  there  is  no  adventure  from 
which  he  emerges  without  a  beating.  In  fact  he  is 
flogged  as  soundly  and  as  often  as  the  fool  in  a 
comedy,  nor  dare  he  ever  resent  the  perpetual  dusting 
of  his  threadbare  jacket.  It  was  not  his  to  complain. 
"Ego  vapulo  tantum"  is  doubtless  his  amiable  comment 
upon  each  fresh  outrage,  since  there  is  no  emergency 
which  he  does  not  fit  with  a  classical  allusion. 

For  this  scoundrel  Ascyltos  is  a  fit  companion.  A 
runaway  slave,  he,  too,  has  stained  his  hands  with 
countless  crimes,  and  seeks  a  discreet  oblivion  in  a 
wandering  life.  A  bully,  as  well  as  a  coward,  he 
shares  the  fears,  and  the  vices,  of  his  friend  ;  he,  too, 
trembles  at  the  approach  of  authority  ;  nor  is  he  ever 
so  happy  as  when  he  may  sponge  a  dinner.  In 
evil-doing  he  knows  neither  scruple  nor  hesitation  so 
long  as  he  can  pit  strategy  against  force,  and  when  he 
takes  the  road  with  Encolpios  he  recks  as  little  of  his 
villainy  as  of  his  rags.  These  rapscallions,  then,  with 
the  infamous  Giton,  are  the  real  heroes  of  the  Satir'icon^ 
and  thus  the  beggar-students  make  their  first  entrance 
upon  the  stage  of  literature.  They  would  steal  in  the 
morning,  that  at  night  they  might  prate  the  more 
fluently  of  poetry  and  eloquence.     No  mischief  makes 


36  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

them  unmindful  of  their  erudition.  "  We  are  men  of 
culture,"  says  Encolpios  with  pride,  forgetting  for  an 
instant  his  ragged  tunic.  They  pack  their  discourse 
with  quip  and  quotation  ;  tags  from  Virgil  are  ever  at 
their  tongue-tip ;  and  when  Encolpios  straps  the 
miscreant  Giton  beneath  his  bed,  he  is  reminded  per- 
force of  Ulysses  under  the  belly  of  the  Cyclops'  ram. 
As  they  loaf  in  the  market-place  of  some  strange  city, 
or  wander  in  search  of  plunder  along  the  highway, 
they  will  join  company  with  the  first-comer,  if  only 
he  vaunt  his  learning  or  profess  a  pretty  taste  in 
poetry. 

Thus  it  is  they  encounter  Agamemnon,  the  type 
of  the  cunning  and  voluble  rhetorician.  At  the  out- 
set he  dazzles  them  with  a  trite  harangue  upon  the 
decay  of  forensic  eloquence,  and  concludes  with  a 
foolish  copy  of  verses  in  the  Lucilian  manner.  But  if 
his  knowledge  is  skin-deep,  his  villainy  reaches  his  very 
marrow.  In  rascality  he  is  a  match  for  his  com- 
panions, in  subtlety  he  is  easily  superior ;  above 
all,  is  he  an  adept  in  the  art  of  dining  at  the  rich 
man's  table.  He  it  is,  in  effect,  who  brings  his 
ragged  companions  to  the  banquet  of  Trimalchio,  and 
he  follows  with  complete  success  the  twin  trades  of 
toady  and  of  bore.  Far  more  amusing  and  even  less 
reputable  is  Eumolpos,  the  ancient  poet,  whom 
Encolpios  surprises  in  a  picture  gallery.  His  rags 
proclaim  him  no  friend  of  the  rich,  but  he  has  a 
settled  confidence  in  his  own  genius,  and  in  season  or 
out  he  will  still  recite  his  intolerable  and  interminable 


PETRONIUS  37 

verses.  Poverty  and  the  weight  of  years  have  neither 
broken  his  spirit  nor  impaired  his  gaiety.  Not  even 
the  fear  of  death  avails  to  check  his  volubility,  he 
composes  amid  the  rattle  of  the  storm,  and  no  sooner 
do  they  take  the  road  after  shipwreck,  than  he  begins 
to  declaim  his  celebrated  epic  The  Civil  War.  But 
no  man  may  live  by  poetry  alone,  and  at  Crotona, 
Eumolpos  discovers  a  brilliant  industry  in  the  decep- 
tion of  the  legacy-hunters.  Now,  in  that  remote  city 
both  learning  and  honesty  were  held  in  the  lightest 
esteem.  For  it  was  peopled  only  by  the  rich  who 
had  money  to  leave,  and  by  the  greedy  poor  who  would 
prey  upon  inheritances.  By  a  humorous  fancy  none  but 
the  childless  were  permitted  to  enter  the  theatre  or  to 
assume  a  public  office.  In  this  realm  of  comic  opera 
nobody  was  more  at  home  than  Eumolpos.  Posing  for 
the  carcase,  he  clamorously  invited  the  attentions  of 
the  crows,  and  for  a  while  the  carcase  got  the  better 
of  the  bargain.  But  though  his  stratagem  gave  him  a 
welcome  taste  of  magnificence,  misfortune  and  death 
overwhelmed  him  at  last,  and  none  would  have  been 
readier  to  declare  his  discomfiture  the  proper  fortune 
of  war  than  this  braggart  poetaster. 

With  such  characters,  how  should  the  romance 
satisfy  the  sensibihty  of  the  Prude  ?  You  might  as 
reasonably  demand  that  Encolpios  should  masquerade 
in  a  tie-wig  and  buckle-shoes  as  expect  the  manners 
of  South  Kensington  in  this  dissipated  Odyssey.  A 
French  critic  in  an  admirable  phrase  once  praised  the 
"  serene    unmorality "   of  Petronius,    and    the    most 


38  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

scrupulous  can  do  no  more  than  confess  that  the 
author  of  the  Satiricon  did  not  twist  his  creatures  to 
suit  the  standard  of  the  law.  Why  should  he, 
when  the  policeman  was  their  hourly  dread  ?  No, 
he  bade  them  wander  through  a  distant  colony,  rags 
on  their  back  and  a  jest  on  their  tongue,  troubled 
only  by  the  fear  of  hunger  and  the  gaol.  Villon  is  of 
their  company :  gladly  would  they  have  cracked  a 
quart  with  him,  gladly  would  they  have  replied  to 
his  verses  with  ballades  of  their  own.  The  heroes 
of  picaresque  romance — Gil  Bias  and  Guzman  and 
Lazarillo — are  their  sworn  brethren,  and  so  enduring 
is  the  type  of  the  beggar-student  that  you  may  meet 
Encolpios  to-day  without  surprise  or  misunder- 
standing. 

He  haunts  the  bars  of  the  Strand,  or  hides  him  in 
the  dismal  alleys  of  Gray's  Inn  Road.  One  there  was 
(one  of  how  many!)  who,  after  a  brilliant  career  at 
the  University,  found  the  highway  his  natural  home, 
and  forthwith  deserted  the  groves  of  learning  for 
the  common  hedgerow  of  adventure.  The  race- 
course knew  him,  and  the  pavement  of  London ; 
blacklegs  and  touts  were  his  chosen  companions ; 
now  and  again  he  would  appear  among  his  old 
associates,  and  enjoy  a  taste  of  Trimalchio*s  banquet, 
complaining  the  while  that  the  money  spent  on  his 
appetite  might  have  been  better  employed  in  the 
backing  of  horses.  Though  long  since  he  forgot 
he  was  a  gentleman,  he  always  remembered  that  he 
was  a  scholar,  and,  despite  his  drunken  blackguardism, 


PETRONIUS  39 

he  still  took  refuge  in  Horace  from  the  grime  and 
squalor  of  his  favourite  career.  Not  long  since  he 
was  discovered  in  a  cellar,  hungry  and  dishevelled  ; 
a  tallow^  candle  crammed  into  a  beer-bottle  was  his 
only  light ;  yet  so  reckless  was  his  irresponsibility 
that  he  forgot  his  pinched  belly  and  his  ragged  coat, 
and  sat  on  the  stone  floor,  reciting  Virgil  to  another 
of  his  profession.  Thus,  if  you  doubt  the  essential 
truth  of  Petronius,  you  may  see  his  grim  comedy 
enacted  every  day,  and  the  reflection  is  forced  upon 
you  that  Encolpios  will  roam  the  streets  so  long  as 
poetry  keeps  her  devotees,  and  scholarship  throws  a 
glamour  over  idle  penury. 

Petronius,  then,  who  has  been  accused  of  satirising 
Nero,  says  no  word  of  Courts  or  of  the  great  world. 
He  writes  as  though  politics  were  an  extinct  science, 
as  though  he  deemed  the  earth  the  ruffler's  proper 
inheritance.  Yet  in  revenge,  his  most  brilliant  episode 
is  a  parody  of  magnificence.  The  Banquet  ofTrimal- 
chio  is,  to  be  sure,  the  reverse  of  the  medal,  but 
nowhere  in  literature  has  vulgar  display  been  treated 
with  so  genial  a  humour.  So  long  as  print  and 
paper  can  confer  immortality,  so  long  Trimalchio 
will  remain  the  supreme  type  of  the  Beggar  on 
Horseback.  The  machinery  is  admirable  :  the  wooden 
hen  sitting  upon  paste  eggs,  each  of  which  contains  a 
stuffed  ortolan  ;  the  Signs  of  the  Zodiac,  with  their 
proper  dishes  ,  the  huge  boar,  out  of  which  flies  a 
flock  of  birds — these  are  inventions  in  futile  extra- 
vagance, which  correspond  completely  to  the  freed- 


40  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

man's  pompous  views  of  luxury.  But  far  better  even 
than  the  machinery  are  the  host  and  hostess.  To 
have  dravi^n  two  such  characters  in  an  age  preoccupied 
with  the  abstract  and  the  impersonal  was  a  triumph 
of  art,  and  Petronius  has  no  cause  to  haggle  for  his 
sovereignty. 

The  very  entrance  of  Trimalchio  is  a  masterpiece : 
no  sooner  are  you  presented  with  the  sketch  of  the 
bald  man  playing  tennis  and  the  mob  of  long-haired 
boys  than  you  are  convinced  of  the  author's  quick 
wit  and  vivid  imagination.  Trimalchio's,  indeed,  is 
the  heroism  of  wealth :  he  would  as  soon  pick 
up  a  ball  which  had  fallen  to  the  ground  as  use 
a  silver  dish  which  the  clumsiness  of  a  slave  has 
permitted  to  touch  the  dust.  No  wonder  he  has  a 
timepiece  in  his  hall,  and  a  trumpeter  to  remind  him 
of  the  flight  of  time.  His  wine  is  superb.  Does  not 
a  contemporary  label  remind  the  connoisseur  that  it 
is  Opimian  Falernian  bottled  a  hundred  years  ago  ? 
The  beggar  students  could  not  have  found  a  house 
better  suited  to  their  extravagant  taste  ;  their  greed 
renders  them  easily  obsequious ;  and  at  the  recital 
of  Trimalchio's  grandeur  their  hungry  mouths  gape 
wider  and  wider.  He  owns  as  much  land  as  a  kite 
can  fly  over ;  he  buys  nothing,  since  everything  is 
grown  at  home ;  he  recks  neither  of  expense  nor 
distance  ;  he  sends  to  Attica  that  he  may  improve  his 
bees,  and  the  seeds  from  which  his  mushrooms  are 
grown  were  fetched  from  the  Indies.  As  he  cannot 
recognise  one-tenth  of  his  slaves,  so  he  knows  neither 


PETRONIUS  41 

the  boundaries  nor  the  names  of  his  vast  possessions, 
and  he  is  consumed  with  anger  when  a  slave  announces 
a  newly-acquired  and  unadvertised  estate. 

His  arrogance  is  as  boundless  as  his  wealth,  and 
he  treats  his  guests  with  a  fine  mixture  of  patronage 
and  eiFrontery.  "  Be  merry,"  says  he  complacently; 
"  once  I  was  no  better  off  than  you,  but  by  my  own 
industry  I  am  what  I  am."  He  reserves  the  place  of 
honour  for  himself,  tells  the  poor  devils  who  gorge 
at  his  table  that,  though  they  are  less  distinguished 
than  yesterday's  party,  they  are  drinking  better  wine, 
and  only  permits  the  conversation  to  grow  friendly  or 
casual  when  it  suits  his  royal  fancy.  Of  wit  he  has 
not  a  touch,  but  he  lightens  the  gloom  with  flashes 
of  boorish  humour,  and  his  table-talk  is  a  perfect 
epitome  of  slavish  intelligence.  Above  all,  he  delights 
in  verbal  puns,  and  it  is  his  most  brilliant  sally  to  call 
his  carver  "Carpe,"  that  one  word  may  be  both 
summons  and  command.  The  Signs  of  the  Zodiac 
provoke  him  to  a  profound  dissertation,  and  not 
without  a  sense  of  fun  he  declares  that  under  the 
Archer  are  born  the  cross-eyed  scoundrels  who  stare 
at  the  cabbage  and  steal  the  bacon.  Of  the  arts  he 
has  but  a  poor  opinion,  confessing  that  he  cares  for 
nothing  but  acrobats  and  trumpeters,  and  he  further 
avows  that,  though  he  did  once  buy  a  company  of 
comedians,  he  only  allowed  them  to  play  Punch  and 
Judy.  At  the  same  time  he  would  be  a  patron  of 
literature,  and  he  brags  for  his  friends'  benefit  that 
he  has  two  libraries,  the  one   of  Greek  books,   the 


42  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

other  of  Latin.  He  has  even  studied  declamation, 
and  pertinently  asks  Agamemnon  the  subject  of  the 
day's  controversy.  "A  poor  man  and  a  rich  w^ere 
once  at  enmity,"  begins  Agamemnon,  whereupon 
Trimalchio,  rising  to  the  very  summit  of  his  colossal 
impudence,  asks  :  "  What  is  a  poor  man  ?  "  His  taste 
for  poetry  has  persuaded  him  to  confuse  history  and 
legend.  He  places  Hannibal  at  the  siege  of  Troy, 
and  w^ith  the  splendid  ignorance  of  a  self-neglected 
man  he  confuses  Medea  with  Cassandra,  and  never 
dreams  for  a  moment  that  the  ruffians,  whose 
momentary  admiration  he  purchases  with  a  meal, 
are  laughing  in  their  sleeves. 

Not  content  with  these  experiments,  he  recites 
some  verses  of  his  own  composition,  compares  Cicero 
and  Publius  in  a  lucid  criticism,  and  presently,  at 
a  convenient  pause,  discusses  which,  after  literature, 
are  the  most  difficult  professions.  These  he  pronounces 
with  a  pompous  security  to  be  medicine  ?.nd  money- 
changing — medicine,  because,  the  doctor  can  look  inside 
us,  and  money-changing,  because  the  professor  can  see 
bronze  through  the  silver.  As  the  wine  goes  round, 
the  monumental  arrogance  of  Trimalchio  receives  its 
last  embellishment.  Believing  himself  almost  divine, 
the  freedman  has  his  will  read,  and  even  recites  his 
own  epitaph,  wherein  he  is  described  as  one  who 
never  listened  to  a  philosopher.  Happily  Habinnas, 
the  maker  of  tombstones,  is  present,  and  he  can  take 
for  the  thousandth  time  the  last  dying  commands  of 
his  patron.     But  the  scene  of  aggrandisement  is  dis- 


PETRONIUS  43 

turbed  by  a  quarrel  which  breaks  out  suddenly  between 
Trimalchio  and  his  consort,  who  throws  the  last  words 
of  abuse  in  her  lord's  face,  and  receives  by  way  of 
guerdon  a  cup  flung  at  her  head  and  the  very  lees 
of  obloquy.  Finally,  Trimalchio  devises  the  supreme 
punishment,  which  shall  be  commensurate  with  her 
offence.  "Habinnas,"  he  says,  "do  not  put  this 
woman's  statue  upon  my  tomb."  And,  as  though 
this  misery  were  insufficient,  "Take  care,"  he  adds, 
"  that  she  be  not  permitted  to  kiss  my  corpse  !  " 

Nor  even  here  shall  you  find  the  climax  of  mon- 
strous stupidity.  No  sooner  is  the  proper  vengeance 
designed  Fortunata  than  Trimalchio  contrives  another 
masterpiece  of  vanity.  He  rehearses  with  a  perfect 
realism  his  own  funeral.  Lying  in  state,  he  bids  the 
trumpeters  blow,  and  exacts  from  his  friends  a  tribute 
of  interested  praise.  But  the  trumpeters  blow  to  such 
purpose,  that  the  watchmen  burst  into  the  house, 
fearing  a  fire,  and  in  the  confusion  the  drunken 
beggars  make  their  escape,  to  pursue  with  a  gay  heart 
and  a  tempered  magnificence  their  ancient  professions 
of  vagabondage  and  thievery. 

The  portrait  of  Trimalchio  is  a  triumph  of  realism. 
Yet  none  the  less,  it  is  of  heroical  proportions.  Its 
grandeur  and  loftiness  are,  at  least,  as  remarkable  as 
its  pitiless  veracity.  Here,  in  fact,  is  a  new  element 
in  literature  :  truth  cast  in  a  large  and  epic  mould. 
You  laugh  at  the  freedman's  extravagance,  but  your 
laughter  lags  behind  your  admiration,  and  you  feel 
that  you  are  confronted  by  the  inverse  of  some  vast 


44  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

j  deity.  /Fortunata,|on  the  other  hand,  is  more  inti- 
mate andlinofe mt/dern.  She  is  burnt  into  the  page 
with  a  grotesque  certainty  that  suggests  an  etching  by 
Goya,  and  being  less  heroically  designed,  she  is  niore 
personal,  more  living  than  Trimalchio  himself.  He 
is  the  luck  of  the  household,  she  the  brain.  She 
counts  her  money  by  the  bushel,  and  nothing  escapes 
her  that  concerns  her  lord  or  his  possessions.  Obscure 
as  she  is,  and  ill-born,  she  rules  him  with  a  word,  and 
if  she  says  it  is  dark  at  noonday,  he  lights  the  lamp. 
But  his  faith  puts  no  check  on  her  loyalty,  and  no 
drop  of  water  moistens  her  lips  until  the  household  is  at 
peace.  She  counts  the  silver,  she  divides  the  broken 
meats  among  the  slaves,  and  then,  and  not  till  then, 
will  she  sit  down  to  dinner,  or  believe  herself  the 
equal  of  her  husband.  Yet,  in  her  hours  of  ease,  she 
is  not  without  accomplishments  ;  she  will  dance  the 
cordax^  that  marvel  of  impropriety,  against  the  whole 
world,  and  she  has  a  perfect  talent  for  scurrility. 
When  Habinnas  and  his  horrible  wife  Scintilla  arrive  at 
Trimalchio's  feast  from  a  funeral,  Fortunata  is  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  Forthwith  the  slaves  are  bidden  to  call 
her,  and  four  times  her  name  is  shouted.  She  enters 
in  all  her  squalid  finery,  wiping  her  hands  on  the 
handkerchief  round  her  neck  ;  her  sHppers  are  laced 
with  gold,  and  corded  buskins  show  beneath  her  gown, 
which  is  cherry-coloured  and  girdled  with  green. 
Forthwith  she  mumbles  affectionately  to  Scintilla, 
and  the  good-humoured  ladies  brag  to  each  other  of  ( 
their  vulgar  finery.  ^ J 


PETRONIUS  45 

Fortunata,  indeed,  is  etched  by  a  master,  and  at  the 
banquet  none  of  the  guests  fall  far  below  the  quality 
of  their  hosts.  In  the  absence  of  Trimalchio  they 
exchange  the  stock  phrases  of  an  impoverished  intelH- 
gence  with  a  genius  of  persistence  that  cannot  be 
matched  outside  the  Polite  Conversation.  They  send 
across  the  table  an  endless  fire  of  proverbs  and  catch- 
words. They  pack  their  discourse  full  of  the  gags  of 
the  tavern,  as  though  they  were  actors  preparing  for 
the  Saturnalia  or  a  Christmas  pantomime.  They 
anticipate  Sam  Weller  with  a  "  better  luck  next  time, 
as  the  yokel  said  when  he  lost  his  speckled  pig." 
They  slip  in  a  quip  or  a  quirk,  alive  from  the  street, 
at  the  briefest  interruption  of  wit.  They  are  magni- 
ficent, worthless,  obscene ;  but  they  are  never  dull, 
and  an  evening  spent  in  the  blackguard  society  of  these 
beggar-students  passes  in  a  flash  of  merriment.  You 
meet  them  with  pleasure,  you  leave  them  with  regret, 
and  only  when  the  author  of  their  being  tempts  you 
to  curiosity  about  himself. 

For  Petronius  is  as  secret  as  Shakespeare,  as  im- 
personal as  Flaubert.  If  he  has  crammed  his  book 
with  the  fruits  of  a  liberal  experience,  he  has  reso- 
lutely suppressed  himself.  Whether  or  no  he  be  the 
Petronius  of  the  Annals  is  uncertain  and  indifferent. 
Most  assuredly  the  author  of  the  Satiricon  would  have 
hated  the  brutality  of  Tigellinus  and  despised  the  taste 
of  Nero,  that  Imperial  Amateur.  But  history  is 
silent,  and  conjecture  is  a  mule.  Wherefore  we  know 
him  only  as  the  writer  of  an  incomparable  romance, 


46  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

which  has  no  other  motive  than  amusement,  and  no 
better  virtues  than  gaiety  and  lightheartedness.  The 
masterpiece,  as  vs^e  have  it  to-day,  is  but  a  collection 
of  fragments,  but  its  composition  is  not  impaired  by 
incompleteness,  and  there  is  scarce  a  fragment  vsrhich 
is  not  perfect  in  itself.  For  Petronius  had  the  true 
genius  of  the  story-teller :  his  openings  are  as  direct  as 
if  silhouetted  in  black  upon  a  virhite  sheet.  Before  all 
the  ancients,  he  had  a  sense  of  background  j  he  knew 
precisely  what  space  his  figures  would  occupy ;  and 
he  never  permitted  a  wanton  exaggeration  or  a  pur- 
poseless perversion.  The  material  of  his  romance  was 
the  squalid  life  of  his  age,  by  land  and  by  sea,  by  day 
and  by  night,  in  the  close  town  and  under  the  large  air 
of  heaven.  He  was  a  very  prince  of  intelligence  ;  he 
understood  as  acutely  as  he  observed,  and  nothing 
escaped  either  mind  or  eye.  His  courage,  moreover, 
was  equal  to  his  understanding  :  he  never  shrank  from 
laying  violent  hands  upon  truth  ;  he  turned  life  inside 
out  with  a  very  passion  of  fearlessness. 

The  first  among  the  ancients  to  cultivate  the  gift 
of  curious  characterisation,  he  invented  a  set  of 
personages,  who  are  not  only  types  but  living  men. 
He  handled  the  sorcery  and  superstition  of  his  age 
with  a  skill  which  not  even  Apuleius  might  excel, 
and  for  all  his  levity  he  knew  how  to  strike  the 
reader  with  horror.  Moreover,  he  was  an  adept  at 
the  Milesian  Fable,  a  haunting  form  of  literature 
which  eludes  the  most  diligent  research  ;  and  the 
Story   of  the   Ephesian    Widow ^  which  even  Jeremy 


PETRONIUS  47 

Taylor  does  not  disdain  to  quote,  is  the  very  model  of 
its  kind,  and  withal  the  perfection  of  ironic  humour. 
Nor  does  this  complete  the  tale  of  his  perfections  :  he 
was  as  accomplished  a  critic  as  antiquity  can  show. 
His  parody  of  Lucan  is  a  dissertation  upon  the  art  of 
poetry  ;  the  reflections  which  precede  it  are  a  miracle 
of  insight ;  and  what  praise  need  you  bestow  upon 
the  man  who  first  discovered  in  Horace  a  "  curiosa 
felicitas  "  ? 

Who  was  he  ?  What  was  he  ?  Whence  came 
he  ?  These  questions  must  remain  for  ever  without 
an  answer.  One  thing  only  is  certain,  he  was  a 
gentleman,  and  incomparably  aristocratic.  He  stood 
a  creator,  high  above  the  puppets  of  his  creation,  and 
in  nothing  does  he  show  his  greatness  so  admirably  as 
in  the  serene  aloofness  of  his  temperament.  One 
Petronius,  surnamed  Arbiter  Elegantiarum^  broke  two 
Murrhine  vases  envied  by  an  Emperor,  and  when, 
driven  to  suicide,  he  opened  a  vein,  he  stopped  the 
blood,  so  long  as  the  converse  of  his  friends  was  an 
entertainment.  The  author  of  the  Satiricon  was 
capable  of  both  these  actions,  and  an  age  is  rich  indeed 
that  produced  two  such  heroes.  But  no  more  may 
be  said  save  that  he  revealed  himself  a  classic  and  the 
friend  of  tradition.  In  the  very  act  to  invent  a  new 
literature,  he  quoted  Virgil  and  Horace  with  an 
admirable  devotion ;  he  wrote  a  prose  so  pure  and 
simple  that  even  the  flashes  of  slang  and  popular  speech 
wherewith  it  is  illuminated  do  not  interrupt  its  high 
tranquillity.     We  may  yet  discover  another  fragment 


48  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

of  his  priceless  work  :  we  are  never  likely  to  pierce 
the  mystery  of  his  being.  But  we  are  content  to  look 
upon  him  as  a  great  gentleman,  and  to  acknowledge 
that  under  his  auspices  we  would  rather  dine  with 
Trimalchio  and  his  rapscallions  than  with  LucuUus 
himself. 


HELIODORUS 


HELIODORUS* 


HELIODORUS,  Bishop  of  Tricca,  bidden  to 
choose  between  the  prelacy  and  his  Mthiopica^ 
rather  suffered  the  deprivation  of  his  title  than  "  lose 
the  glory  of  so  excellent  piece."  Such  is  the  one  poor 
legend  which  serves  Heliodorus  for  a  biography.  Nor 
may  it  claim  the  honour  of  antiquity,  since,  though 
in  modern  times  it  has  never  lacked  appreciative  itera- 
tion, its  invention  is  no  older  than  Nicephorus  Callistus 
and  the  fourteenth  century.  Translated  into  all  modern 
tongues,  this  unsupported  testimony  has  aroused  an 
admiration  for  Heliodorus  in  the  breasts  of  thousands 
for  whom  the  Mthiopica  is  merely  Greek,  and  who 
have  scarce  heard,  even  at  second  hand,  of  the  loves  of 
Theagenes  and  Chariclia.    From  Montaigne  f  the  fable 

*  An  ^Ethiopian  Historic,  written  in  Greeke  by  Heliodorus, 
no  lesse  wittie  than  pleasaunt.  Englished  by  T.  Underdowne, 
and  newly  corrected  and  augmented  with  divers  and  sundrie 
new  additions  by  the  said  Authour.  Imprinted  by  F.  Coldocke. 
London.     1587. 

t  "  Heliodorus,  ce  bon  evesque  de  Tricca,"  thus  runs  the 
passage,  "  ay  ma  mieulx  perdre  la  dignity,  le  profit,  la  devotion, 
d'une  prelature  si  venerable,  que  de  perdre  sa  fille,  fille  qui  dure 
encore  bien  gentille,  mais,  a  I'aventure  pourtant  un  peu  trop 
curieusement  et  mollement  goderonnee,  pour  fille  ecclesiastique 
•et  sacerdotale,  et  de  trop  amoureuse  fa^on." 


52  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

crept  into  Burton's  Anatomy^  and  thence  into  every 
treasury  of  the  commonplace,  until,  industriously  re- 
peated, it  has  become  more  true  than  truth  itself. 
And  yet,  like  truth  itself,  it  is  manifestly  difficult  of 
belief.  For,  in  Montaigne's  despite,  the  Mthiopica  is 
a  work  of  which  the  most  exalted  bishop  might  be 
proud.  In  one  aspect  it  is  nothing  less  than  a  pane- 
gyric of  chastity — a  Joseph  Andrews  stripped  of  its 
satire.  And  should  not  the  bishop  rather  enjoy  pro- 
motion for  so  conspicuous  a  service  than  witness  the 
destruction  of  his  solitary  child  ?  Nor  does  Helio- 
dorus  stand  in  need  of  any  false  dignity,  since  his 
style  and  description,  devised,  as  an  epilogue,  by  him- 
self, are  far  more  honourable  than  the  title  bestowed  of 
JN'icephorus  :  "  Thus  endeth  the  -/Ethiopian  historic  of 
Theagenes  and  Chariclia,"  you  read  on  the  last  page, 
"  the  authour  whereof  is  Heliodorus  of  Emesos,  a  citie 
in  Phoenicia,  sonne  of  Theodosius,  which  fetched  his 
petigree  from  the  Sunne."  *  Who  would  not  rather 
boast  a  descent  direct  from  the  Sun,  than  sit  in  far-ofF 
Thessaly  upon  the  throne  of  Tricca  ?  But  Nice- 
phorus  Callistus  had  thus  much  support  for  his  in- 
genious fiction,  that  Socrates,  an  ecclesiastical  writer 
of  the  fifth  century,  gave  the  see  of  Tricca  to  one 
Heliodorus.  Nevertheless,  similarity  of  name  is  poor 
evidence,  and  until  you  desert  the  author  for  his  work 
you  may  believe  whatever  legend  you  will. 

*  Toiovhe  iripas  tax^  ^^  avvrayixa.  tQv  irepl  Qeayhrjv  Kal  "KaplKXeiap 
\Ai6ioTnKUV  6  cvvira^ev  dvrjp  6oiVt^ 'E/uetnyyos,  TiSu  d<p'  *R\tovy4i>oSt 
Qcodocriov  7rats'H\t65a>/>os. 


HELIODORUS  53 

The  Mthtoptca  is    the  forerunner  of  the  modern 
Romance,  the  ancestor  in  a  direct  line  of  the  Novel  of 
Adventure.     The  invention  of  Heliodorus  carries  the 
reader  far   away   from   life  and  observation.     Blood- 
thirsty pirates  and  armed  men,  caves  and  ambushes, 
<lreams  and  visions,  burnings,  poisonings,  and  sudden 
deaths,  battle  and  rapine — these  are  the  material  of  his 
ancient  story.     It  has  been  called  a  prose  epic  ;  yet  it 
is  more  nearly  related  to  Ivanhoe  than  to  the  Iliad. 
There  is  no  artifice  of  the  "  historical  novel "  which 
Heliodorus  does  not  anticipate.     The  challenge  thrown 
down  in  his  Fourth  Book  by  "one  of  goodly  person- 
age and  of  greate  courage "  might  have  been  devised 
by  Sir  Walter  himself,  and  the  miraculous  escapes  of 
the  hero  and  heroine  are  still  the  commonplaces  of 
popular   fiction.     But  the   chastity  of  Chariclia,  the 
more  than  human  control  of  Theagenes,  are  of  the 
author's   own    contriving;   and   these   qualities    most 
assuredly  give  character  and  consistency  to  his  narra- 
tive.    It  is  in  his  opening  scene  that  Heliodorus  best 
approves  his  skill.     He  plunges  at  once  into  a  very 
tangle  of  events,  and  captures  the  attention  by  a  fear- 
less  contempt    of    prologue   and   explanation.     "  As 
soone  as  the  day  appeared,"  to  quote   Underdowne's 
picturesquely    inaccurate    version,    "and    the    Sunne 
began  to  shine  on  the  tops  of  the  hilles,  men  whose 
custome  was  to  live  by  rapine  and  violence  ranne  to 
the  top  of  a  hill  that  stretched  towards  the  mouth  of 
Nylus,  called  Heracleot :  where  standing  awhile  they 
viewed  the  sea  underneath  them,  and  when  they  had 


54  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

looked  a  good  season  a  far  off  into  the  same,  and  could 
see  nothing  that  might  put  them  in  hope  of  pray,  they 
cast  their  eyes  somewhat  neare  the  shoare :  where  a 
shippe,  tyed  with  cables  to  the  maine  land,  lay  at  road, 
without  sailers,  and  full  fraughted,  which  thing,  they 
who  were  a  farre  of  might  easily  conjecture  :  for  the 
burden  caused  the  shippe  to  drawe  water  within  the 
bourdes  of  the  decke."  And  when  a  maid,  "endued 
with  excellent  beauty,"  is  pictured  gazing  upon  a 
sorely  wounded  youth,  the  reader  knows  forthwith 
what  is  in  store  for  him,  and  foresees  the  happy  end 
of  a  familiar  embroilment.  Throughout  the  author 
shows  himself  a  master  of  construction.  Though  his 
plot  be  involved,  though  his  story  begin  anywhere  else 
than  at  the  beginning,  it  is  the  surest  of  hands  which 
holds  the  threads.  The  countless  misfortunes  which 
befall  the  actors  of  the  melodrama,  before  ever  the 
thieves  of  Egypt  carry  away  their  prey,  are  set  forth 
in  a  series  of  episodes,  which  gives  the  book  an  appear- 
ance of  separate  stories  lightly  held  together.  Na 
fresh  personage  comes  upon  the  scene  but  he  proceeds 
to  divulge  the  adventures  of  the  past.  Thus  Cnemoa 
relates  the  story  of  Demeneta,  his  jealous  stepmother^ 
an  invention  worthy  the  genius  of  Boccaccio ;  thus 
Calasiris,  that  blameless  old  man,  true  descendant  of 
the  Tragic  Chorus,  only  begetter  of  unnumbered  Old 
Adams,  recounts  his  own  mishaps  with  peevish  tedious- 
ness,  adding  thereto  the  early  history  of  Chariclia  and 
Theagenes  ;  thus  you  are  told  how  Chariclia,  exposed 
to  doubtful  fortune,  was  committed,  jewels  and  all,. 


HELIODORUS  55 

to  Charicles,  and  how  Theagenes  went  forth  from 
Thessaly  to  perform  the  funeral  rites  of  Pyrrhus,  son 
of  Achilles.  Yet,  despite  this  constant  doubling  back 
to  the  past,  the  purpose  of  the  narrative  is  never  con- 
fused, and  you  reach  the  appointed  end  with  a  com- 
plete consciousness  of  the  story's  shape  and  construc- 
tion. To-day  the  artifice  seems  simple  enough.  The 
personages  of  the  romance  are  known  to  one  another 
by  token  or  by  recollection  at  the  first  encounter,  until 
the  effect  savours  rather  of  modern  farce  and  the 
strawberry  mark  than  of  the  pitiless  self-discovery  of 
CEdipus.  But  the  trick  might  well  have  showed  a 
miracle  of  ingenuity  in  the  fourth  century  ;  nor  does 
Heliodorus  pretend  either  to  Sophoclean  irony  or  to 
the  compact  development  of  Athenian  tragedy.  In 
brief,  he  tells  a  discursive  story  of  love  and  capture,, 
and  tells  it  to  such  purpose  that  his  very  faults  have 
served  for  an  example  to  centuries  of  romance. 

For  him  the  adventure  was  the  beginning  and  the 
end  of  art.  His  book  contains  scarce  a  hint  of 
character,  and  he  wove  his  vast  tapestry  from  the 
plays  and  epics  of  Greece  without  a  glance  thrown  on 
the  life  of  his  time.  Wherefore  his  Mthioplca  belongs, 
to  no  period  and  to  no  country.  It  is  as  remote  from 
reality  as  the  Arcadia — of  which,  perchance,  it  was  an 
inspiration — or  the  other  dead  romances  of  the  Eliza- 
bethans. For  Heliodorus  Egypt  and  Thessaly  are 
names  and  no  more  ;  his  personages  fight  and  love^ 
are  captured  and  set  free  in  an  age  which  is  heroic 
despite  its  complications.     The  motives  which   per- 


56  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

suade  Theagenes  and  Chariclia  to  their  intervals  of 
activity  are  of  the  simplest.  No  subtlety  ever  dis- 
turbs the  logical  result  of  hate  or  jealousy ;  not  one 
creation  submits  to  an  individual  impulse.  Each  has 
his  qualities,  each  acts  or  suffers,  not  as  in  a  real  world 
but  as  in  a  world  of  phantasy,  wherein  Heliodorus 
pulls  the  strings.  Now  and  again  the  novelist  is  sur- 
prised into  a  piece  of  observation,  the  more  strange  for  its 
very  rarity :  for  instance,  Arsinoe  is  despised  of  Nausi- 
kles, "  because  that  while  she  sang  her  cheekes  swelled, 
and  were  unseemly,  and  her  eyes  stared,  almost  leaving 
their  accustomed  place."*  Not  a  miracle  of  insight, 
truly,  but  a  patch  of  vivid  relief  upon  a  pallid  picture. 
The  deaf  fisherman,  too,  whom  Calasiris  (in  Book  v.) 
finds  mending  his  nets,  is  a  sketch  fashioned  from 
memory  or  a  notebook,  and  is  free  from  the  prevailing 
taint  of  the  heroic.  "  After  I  had  gone  a  little  way," 
thus  Underdowne,  "  I  sawe  an  olde  man  which  was  a 
fisher,  that  satte  mending  his  broken  nettes,  before  his 
doore.  I  came  to  him,  and  saide,  Goode  man,  God  save 
you,  and  tell  me  I  pray  you,  where  a  man  may  gette 
lodging  ?  He  answered  me  :  it  was  rent  upon  a  pro- 
montorie  hereby :  being  lette  slippe  upon  a  rock, 
which  they  sawe  not.  I  aske  not  that,  quoth  I,  but 
you  shall  show  us  great  courtesie,  if  either  you  your- 
selfe  wilbe  our  hoste,  or  else  shewe  us  some  other  Inne. 

*  The  Greek  is  more  obviously  realistic  than  Underdowne's 
English.  Here  it  is :  iiretdi^  Kvprovfiivqv  ai>T'y  ttjv  irapeiav  iv  rdii 
avXi^fiaffi  elde,  Kai  irpbs  t6  ^iaiov  rdv  (pva-rj/xdruv  airpeiricxTepov  iirl 
rds  pipas  dviffrafxiPTjv,  t6  re  6ixp.a.  irifx.'irpdfxevov  Kal  r^s  oUeias  edpas 
i^udoifievov. 


HELIODORUS  57 

He  answeared,  not  I,  for  I  was  not  aborde  with  them." 
But  this  cross-purpose  is  not  characteristic  :  it  seems 
to  have  crept  by  stealth  into  an  impersonal  narrative. 
Again,  Heliodorus  is  curiously  insensitive  to  land- 
scape :  a  failing  the  more  noteworthy  since  the  author 
of  the  incomparable  Daphnis  and  Chloe  was  doubtless 
his  near  contemporary.  You  journey  with  Chariclia 
from  Egypt  into  Thessaly;  with  Cnemon  you  wander 
to  the  Peiraeus  ;  but  the  impression  of  atmosphere  is 
faint  indeed.  If  the  long,  low  banks  of  the  Nile 
compel  the  writer's  interest,  if  he  have  some  vague 
sense  of  marshland,  he  caught  it  not  from  life  but  from 
Herodotus ;  and  Underdowne's  phrase,  "  When  all 
was  whishte  in  the  marish,"  is  infinitely  more  expres- 
sive than  the  original  Greek  :  aLyifiQ  Se  to  %\og  icara- 
<j\ov(Tr]g. 

But,  though  we  know  not  whether  Heliodorus  were 
Bishop  of  Tricca  or  descendant  of  the  Sun,  his  book 
assures  us  more  certainly  than  the  word  of  all  the 
Fathers  that  he  was  a  lettered  recluse,  who  sought  in 
books  the  experience  which  Hfe  denied  him.  There 
was  never  a  writer  who  closed  his  senses  more  reso- 
lutely to  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  world.  In  him  the 
faculty  of  observation  was  replaced  by  the  self-conscious- 
ness of  the  student.  Not  even  his  vocabulary  was  fresh 
or  original.  Coray,  the  wisest  of  his  editors,  has 
proved  that  he  borrowed  his  words  as  ingeniously  as 
he  concocted  his  episodes.  His  prose,  in  fact,  is 
elaborately  composed  of  tags  from  Homer  and  the 
Tragedians.     It    is   as   though   an    English   novelist 


58  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

should  establish  his  diction  upon  a  study  of  Chaucer 
and  the  Elizabethan  drama  !  There  results  the  style 
of  a  bookworm,  not  even  remotely  poetical,  but  broken 
by  inapposite  echoes  of  all  the  poets.  To  turn  from. 
Heliodorus  to  Longus  is  to  change  a  clever  craftsman 
for  a  finished  artist.  For  Longus  played  upon  lan- 
guage as  upon  a  various  and  subtle  instrument,  calling 
therefrom  harmonies  unknown  before,  and  it  is  the 
misfortune  of  Heliodorus  that  time  and  subject  compel 
a  comparison  of  the  ^thiopica  with  Daphnis  and 
Chloe^  indisputably  the  greatest  of  Greek  romances. 

One  other  habit  determines  the  writer  of  culture  : 
a  delight  in  commonplace  and  in  the  improvement  of 
the  occasion.  He  will  always  point  a  moral,  if  he  do 
not  thereby  adorn  his  tale.  "  Such  is  the  appearance 
of  very  nobilitie,"  you  read  in  the  Enghsh  of 
Underdowne,  "and  the  force  of  comeliness,  which 
can  subdue  the  disposition  of  theeves,  and  bring 
under  the  wilde  and  savage."  The  reflection  may 
be  matched  for  triteness  where  you  will.  But  when 
Heliodorus  calls  upon  Calasiris  to  prove  that  Homer 
was  an  Egyptian,  he  approaches  still  more  nearly  the 
Barlovian  ideal,  and  when  the  irreproachable  Calasiris- 
replies  to  Cnemon's  entreaty  :  "Although  it  be  nothing 
neare  to  our  purpose  to  talk  of  such  things,  yet  I 
will  briefly  tell  you  :  "  you  expect  a  vision  of  Harry 
Sandford.  However,  if  Heliodorus  wrote  the  prose 
of  a  bookworm,  if  he  looked  for  life  rather  on  his 
shelves  than  in  the  market-place,  if  the  love  of  Thea- 
genes  and  Chariclia  be  the  milk-and-water  of  passion^ 


HELIODORUS  59 

the  passion,  indeed,  of  Paul  and  Virginia,  his  invention 
is  beyond  reproach,  and  an  age  which  prefers  insight 
before  fancy  may  still  admire  the  Mthiopica  as  the 
beginning  of  romance. 

The  popularity  of  Heliodorus  was  early  estab- 
lished. His  masterpiece  has  been  translated  into  many 
tongues.  Nor  has  it  proved  a  mere  solace  and  inspi- 
ration :  there  is  a  legend  that  in  the  sixteenth  century 
it  was  gravely  considered  a  handbook  of  tactics.  In 
1534  the  Editio  Princeps*  appeared,  and  seventeen 
years  later  an  adventurous  Pole,  one  Stanislaus 
Warschewiczki,  turned  it  into  plain  and  serviceable 
Latin.f  The  preface,  which  is  dated  '  Ex  Warsche- 
wiczke,  paterno  rure,  Calendas  Augusti,  155 1,"  gives 
a  human  interest  to  a  long-forgotten  work.  It  is 
strange,  indeed,  that  HeHodorus,  travelling  betimes 
to  far-ofF  Poland,  should  have  amused  the  leisure  of 
a  territorial  lord.  But  for  us  the  ancient  editions  have 
a  more  than  picturesque  interest,  because  they  must 
needs  have  been  in  the  hands  of  Thomas  Under- 
downe,  the  first  to  English  the  loves  of  Theagenes 
and  Chariclia.  Unlike  Sir  Thomas  North,  Under- 
downe  owed  no  debt  to  Amyot,  whose  /Ethiopicay 
pubHshed  in  1559,  is  not  for  an  instant  comparable 
to   his   masterly   versions   of  Plutarch    and   Longus. 

*  Heliodori  iEthiopicae  Historiae  libri  decern,  nunquam  antea 
in  lucem  editi.     Basilese,  1534. 

t  Thus  the  book,  a  noble  quarto,  is  described  upon  the  title- 
page  :  Heliodori  ^thiopicae  Historiae  libri  decern,  nunc  primum 
e  Graeco  sermone  in  Latinum  translati.  Stanislao  Warschewiczki 
Polono  Interpreti.    Basileae,  1551. 


6o  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Prolix  and  tasteless,  it  neither  represents  the  original, 
nor  is  it  worthy  on  its  separate  merit.  Amyot  failed 
with  Heliodorus  as  Angell  Day  failed  with  Longus, 
and  as  Amyot  turned  Daphnis  and  Chloe  into  a 
phantasy,  beautiful  as  his  original,  so  Thomas 
Underdowne  converted  Theagenes  and  Chariclia  from 
the  faded  experiment  of  a  studious  pedant  into  a  fresh 
and  open-aired  romance. 

But  Underdowne  fails  as  a  translator,  because  his 
ignorance  of  Greek  and  Latin  was  frank  and  magnifi- 
cent. There  is  no  page  of  him  that  is  not  shamed  by 
a  childish  misunderstanding  of  the  original.  That  he 
used  the  Latin  more  intimately  than  the  Greek  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  he  follows  the  ingenious 
Warschewiczki  into  his  every  error.  Indeed,  he 
nowhere  declares  his  acquaintance  with  Greek, 
though  now  and  again  the  ingenuity  of  his  fault 
suggests  that  the  true  text  of  Heliodorus  was  in  his 
hands  ;  while  he  indirectly  acknowledges  his  debt  to 
the  Latin  version  by  translating  into  characteristic 
English  a  brief  biography  of  his  author.  "  In  the 
«tile,"  writes  Underdowne,  after  the  Polish  scholar, 
"is  much  exquisite  diHgence,  yet  doth  it  bring  with 
it  a  certaine  delightful  oblectation,  united,  as  is  meete 
in  such  an  Argument,  with  singular  myrth."  But, 
if  Underdowne  had  any  sense  of  his  author's  style 
(which  is  hardly  credible),  he  kept  sternly  aloof 
from  it.  There  is  no  trace  in  the  English  version 
of  the  Greek  writer's  foppish  pedantry.  The  style  of 
Underdowne  is  all  unspoiled  by  inapposite  quotation  or 


HELIODORUS  6r 

ingenious  illusion,  and  if  it  be  more  truly  poetical  than 
the  original,  that  is  because  a  rhythmically  cadenced 
prose  is  nearer  poetry  than  a  bundle  of  conceits.  But 
he  made  no  attempt  to  represent  his  author  :  by  design 
or  accident  he  got  as  far  from  Heliodorus  as  possible. 
To  compare  the  two  is  to  wonder  that  the  one  has 
even  a  distant  relation  to  the  other.  For  so  fine  is 
Underdowne's  feeling  for  adventure,  so  admirable  is 
his  local  colour,  that  he  gives  the  story  the  period 
and  the  atmosphere  which  Heliodorus  perforce  with- 
held. With  the  English  in  your  hand,  you  lose 
that  uncertainty  of  time  and  place  which  the  Greek's 
vague  heroism  inspires.  You  are  in  the  very  citadel 
of  Romance ;  and  the  citadel  is  built  in  Elizabethan 
England  ;  and  the  romance  is  unfolded  to  you,  not  in 
the  tasteless  phrase  thought  out  by  a  man  of  culture 
in  his  sombre  study,  but  in  a  medley  of  vivid  words 
culled  from  the  chap-books  or  heard  in  the  market- 
place. For  Underdowne  was  of  those  who  would 
put  the  gods  into  doublet  and  hose.  His  hero  is 
"  Captaine  Theagenes  "  ;  Calasiris  addresses  Charicles 
frankly  with  a  "Marry  Syr  Caricles,"  while  such 
phrases  as  "Syr  Prieste"and"JoUie  Dame"(65  OavjULatria) 
sparkle  on  every  page.  The  modern  tone,  as  Under- 
downe understood  it,  is  so  scrupulously  preserved  that 
you  will  not  find  a  dozen  suggestions  of  a  classica* 
origin  in  the  book.  "Tush  (quoth  she),  thy  prating 
is  of  no  effect " :  thus  the  old  woman  Cybele  to  her 
son.  And  when  Chariclia  stands  at  the  stake,  un- 
harmed by  the   fire,  "  Arsace,  not  well  in   her  wits. 


^2  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

skipte  from  the  walks,  and  came  out  at  a  posterne 
with  a  great  company  of  her  guarde."  (ri^v  St 
'ApcTUKYiv  fi^i  Karaaxovaav  KaSaXiaOai  ts  oltto  riov 
THxCoVj  Ka\  Sia  TTvXidog  f/cSpaftoucrav  crvv  TroXXy 
dopv(l>oplci.)  Then,  that  there  may  never  be  a  retro- 
gression into  antiquity,  juouoraov  appears  as  "  studie," 
Kiddpav  as  "  Virginalls,"  and  an  one  occasion  Thea- 
genes  is  seen  "  walking  about  the  church  and  in  the 
cloisters."  (nspX  rbv  vtwv  koX  tov  TTfpfjSoXov.)  To 
resume,  Underdowne  was  a  poor  translator  but  a  great 
writer.  He  had  neither  the  knowledge  nor  the  subtlety 
to  put  Heliodorus  into  an  appropriate  dress.  He  did 
but  take  the  Mthioptca  for  his  motive,  fashioning  there- 
upon an  excellent  narrative,  which  might  still  be  an 
ensample  to  writers  of  romance  ;  and  thus  he  proved 
that  the  translator  may  be  above  his  original,  that 
inaccuracy  is  no  bar  to  a  brilliant  "  transformation." 

As  it  was  Underdowne's  supreme  ambition  to 
quicken  the  Greek  into  the  vigorous  life  of  romantic 
English,  he  was  ever  on  the  outlook  for  strange  and 
daring  words.  MofxaraL  he  converts  into  "  plays  the 
naughtipack,"  a  phrase  whose  excellent  sound  and 
humour  are  ill  warranted  by  the  original.  Thus, 
too,  he  renders  the  commonplace  fxetpcLKiov  by  so 
expressive  a  word  as  "princocks,"  and  there  is  not 
a  sentence  that  his  courage  does  not  improve  out 
of  knowledge.  "When  this  affection  had  gripped 
their  hearts,  they  became  pale,"  he  writes  of  the 
lovers'  meeting ;  and  you  realise  how  picturesque  is 
the  English  when  you  turn  to  the  Greek,  and  find 


HELIODORUS  63 

no  more  than  tov  TraOovg  kol  rriv  Kapdiav  liridpa- 
fiovTOQy  wxpiaaav.  With  admirable  effect,  too,  does 
he  throw  a  characteristic  word  into  his  sentence : 
*'  And  therewithal  Cariclia  glistered  at  the  race  ende," 
though  "  glistered  "  finds  its  suggestion  in  l^iXafjixpsv. 
When  Calasiris  wraps  Chariclia's  quiver  ''in  a  torne 
and  naughty  piece  of  leather  "  {TeTpvx(j^l^ivoig  Kwdiotg)^ 
it  is  difficult  to  explain  your  delight  in  the  phrase,  yet 
you  know  that  none  but  an  Elizabethan  could  have 
written  it.  And  when  Underdowne  renders  riva  rCov 
a.yopai(t)Vy  "one  of  the  makeshifts  of  the  city,"  or, 
having  no  better  occasion  than  Eiprjvrfg  avroig  lyivETO 
wpvTavig^  stumbles  upon  so  ingenious  an  expansion  as 
"made  himself  their  loveday  and  peace,"  it  is  plain 
that  if  he  treated  his  Heliodorus  with  scant  courtesy, 
at  least  he  knew  how  to  embellish  him. 

His  version,  then,  is  purely  English,  untouched  of 
Greek  or  foreign  influence.  Gifted  with  an  unerring 
tact  of  narrative,  endowed  with  a  rare  sense  of  rhythm, 
Underdowne  w^as  more  than  the  most  of  his  con- 
temporaries a  maker  of  English  prose.  In  his  pages 
may  be  found  an  origin  of  the  Authorised  Version. 
Accustomed  to  esteem  our  own  Bible  a  separate 
masterpiece,  we  forget  that  the  translators  of  James's 
reign  were  but  the  heirs  of  the  Elizabethans.  The 
style,  which  they  handled  with  so  fine  a  bravery, 
they  found  fashioned  ready  to  their  hand.  North  and 
Underdowne,  Holland  and  Adlington,  had  come 
before  to  establish  a  tradition  of  distinguished  prose. 
And  it  is  Underdowne  who  most  nearly  approaches 


64  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

the  august  severity  of  the  English  Bible.  For  ex- 
ample, contemplate  the  following  passage  :  "  Where- 
fore I  with  wayling  beweepe  my  sorrow,  like  a  Birde, 
whose  nest  a  dragon  pulleth  down,  and  devoureth  her 
young  before  her  face,  and  is  afraid  to  come  nigh, 
neither  can  she  flee  away."  Might  not  these  lines  be 
culled  from  the  Psalms  or  the  Prophets  ?  And  while 
Underdowne  preserves  the  dignity  and  colour  of  his^ 
narrative  at  this  high  level,  he  holds  in  reserve  the 
power  of  raising  his  note,  of  making  his  page  blare 
(so  to  say)  with  a  trumpet  call.  Thus  Theagenes 
comes  before  the  wanton  Arsace  to  find  her  habited 
in  splendour  :  "  When  he  came  in  and  sawe  her 
sittinge  in  her  chaire  of  estate,  clothed  in  purple  and 
clothe  of  golde,  glorious  with  jolly  jewels,  and  her 
costly  bonet,  finely  attyred  and  decked,  with  her 
garde  about  her,  and  the  chiefe  magistrates  of  the 
Persians  by  her,  he  was  not  abashed  a  whit  but 
rather  the  more  incouraged  against  the  Persian 
braverie."  Though  the  passage  bear  not  the  smallest 
likeness  to  the  thinly  accurate  Greek,  how  admirable 
are  its  qualities  of  sound  and  strength !  Or  choose 
another  specimen  at  hazard,  and  let  Underdowne 
prove  himself  a  master  of  the  picturesque.  It  is  a 
portrait  of  Theagenes  drawn  by  Calasiris :  "  Such 
brightness  did  hys  sight  bring  unto  us,  in  as  much  as 
he  was  on  horseback  also,  with  a  speare  of  Ashe, 
poynted  with  Steele  in  his  hande  ;  he  had  no  helmet 
on,  but  was  bare  headed.  His  cloke  was  of  Purple 
wrought  with  Gplde,  wherein  was  the  battell  of  the 


HELIODORUS  65 

Centaures  and  Lapithes :  on  the  button  of  his  cloke 
was  Pallas  pictured,  bearing  a  shielde  before  her 
breast,  wherein  was  Gorgons  head.  The  comelines 
and  commendation  of  that  which  was  done  was  some- 
what increased  by  the  easie  blowing  of  the  winde, 
which  mooved  his  haire  about  his  necke,  parting  it 
before  his  forhead,  and  made  his  cloake  wave,  and 
the  nether  parts  thereof  to  cover  the  back  and  buttocks 
of  his  horse.  You  would  have  sayde  that  hys  horse 
did  knowe  the  beautie  of  his  master,  and  that  he 
beeing  very  faire  himselfe,  did  beare  a  passing  seemely 
man,  he  rayned  so,  and  with  pricked  up  eares,  he  tossed 
his  head,  and  rolled  his  eyes  fiercelie,  and  praunced,  and 
leapt  in  so  fine  sort."  That  is  prose  of  a  form  and 
substance  which  could  only  have  been  understood  in 
the  fresh  childhood  of  literature.  And  it  is  good  indeed 
to  contemplate  the  splendid  barbarity  of  this  ancient 
style  in  an  age  when  a  hatred  of  affectation,  a  foolish 
deference  to  an  attenuated  tradition,  have  replaced 
every  individual  characteristic  by  a  precise  uniformity. 
Such  the  book  upon  which  Thomas  Underdowne 
has  established  his  claim  to  the  grateful  memory  of  all 
those  who  love  rich,  well-measured  English.  It  is 
described  upon  the  title-page  with  characteristic 
circumstance  and  completeness.  "An  Ethiopian 
Historie,"  thus  runs  the  edition  of  1587,  "written  in 
Greeke  by  Heliodorus,  no  lesse  wittie  than  pleasaunt. 
Englished  by  T.  Underdowne,  and  newly  corrected 
and  augmented  with  divers  and  sundrie  new  additions 
by  the   said  Authour.     Imprinted  by   F.  Coldocke. 


66  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

London.  1587."  If  we  may  believe  Bliss  (in  his 
Athena  Oxon'ienses\  the  first  edition,  which  bears  no 
date,  was  printed  for  Henrie  Wykes  by  Frances  Coldocke 
in  1577,  so  that  the  book  had  been  ten  years  in  the 
world  before  it  was  "  newly  augmented."  The  "  his- 
torie "  is  dedicated  in  terms  of  pomp  and  flattery  to 
the  Right  Honourable  Edward  Deviere,  Lord  Boul- 
becke.  Earl  of  Oxenford,  Lord  Great  Chamberlain  of 
England,  to  whom  the  author  acknowledges  himself 
**  not  knowen."  His  choice  of  a  patron  is  excellently 
reasoned,  being  withal  a  proof  of  implicit  trust  in  his 
author.  "  Now  of  al  knowledge  fit  for  a  noble  gentle- 
man, I  suppose  the  knowledge  of  histories  is  most 
seeming.  For  furthering  whereof,  I  have  englished  a 
passing  fine  and  witty  historye,  written  in  Greeke  by 
Heliodorus,  and  for  right  good  cause  consecrated  the 
same  to  your  honourable  Lordship."  In  the  address  to 
the  Gentle  Reader,  which  stands  by  way  of  preface,  the 
worthy  Underdowne  is  not  so  wisely  guided.  He  repents 
him  of  his  folly,  and  craves  pardon  for  his  boldness. 
Grimly  conscious  that  the  stationers*  shops  are  "  full- 
fraughted  with  books  of  small  price,"  he  confesses  that 
*'  the  looseness  of  these  dayes  rather  requireth  grave 
exhortations  to  vertue,  than  wanton  allurements  to 
leudnesse."  But  the  harm  being  done,  he  deems  it 
no  dishonour  to  correct  the  errors  wherewith  his  own 
or  the  corrector's  negligence  has  disfigured  the  pages. 
His  theory  of  correction  is  still  unintelligible,  for  no 
book  was  ever  read  for  the  press  with  more  shameful 
inaccuracy    than    this   "newly    corrected   and    aug- 


HELIODORUS  67 

merited"  edition  of  1587.  But  why  insist  upon 
orthography,  where  you  find  nobility  of  style  ?  The 
translator  then  excuses  the  enterprise,  which  his  riper 
years  condemn,  on  the  ground  that  the  book 
"punisheth  the  faultes  of  evill  doers,  and  rewardeth 
the  well  livers."  "  What  a  king  is  Hidaspes  ? "  he 
asks  triumphantly.  "What  a  patterne  of  a  good 
prince  ?  What  happy  successe  had  he  ?  Contrari- 
wise. What  a  leawde  woman  was  Arsace  ?  What  a 
patterne  of  evill  behaviour  ?  What  an  evill  end  had 
shee  ?  "  Thus  he  would  ask  a  superfluous  pardon,  and 
excuse  a  work  that  needed  no  defence.  And  the  world 
is  content,  readily  condoning  this  slender  fault  of  moral 
apology,  inevitable  imder  Elizabeth,  as  in  the  later  age 
of  Victoria. 

Of  Thomas  Underdowne's  life  little  enough  is 
certain.  The  son  of  Steven  Underdowne,  he 
sojourned  a  while  at  the  University  of  Oxford.  But 
he  left  it  without  a  degree  ;  and  we  know  not  whether 
he  betook  himself  to  the  church  or  spent  a  more 
adventurous  life  in  the  courts.  His  published  works 
provide  a  scanty  knowledge,  which  we  search  in  vain 
to  supplement.  In  1566  there  was  printed  by 
Rychard  Jones  a  small  octavo,  little  more  than  a 
pamphlet,  entitled  The  Excellent  Historie  of  Theseus 
and  Ariadne^  "written  in  English  Meeter  by  Thomas 
Underdowne."*     Such  was  the  beginning,  and  three 

*  Thus  it  stands  in  the  Stationers'  Registers  for  1566: 
"  Recyvyd  of  Richard  Jonnes  for  his  lycense  for  the  prynting  of 
an  history,  intituled  Thesious  and  Arr(i)adne,  iiijd." 


68  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

years  later  a  more  ambitious  work  was  registered  at 
the  Stationers'  Hall:  Ovid^  his  invective  against 
Ibis,  "  Translated  into  English  Meeter,  whereunto 
is  added  by  the  translator,  a  short  draught  of  all  the 
stories  and  tales  contained  therein,  very  pleasant  to 
read."*  On  the  title-page  is  no  note  of  author- 
ship ;  but  the  dedication,  addressed  in  the  common 
style  of  adulation  to  Sir  Thomas  Sackville,  is  signed 
T.  U.,  and  the  writer  avows  that  he  honours  Sir 
Thomas,  partly  because  he  is  the  friend  of  poets,  partly 
on  account  of  "  the  good  affection  your  honour  hath 
had  to  my  dear  father,  Steven  Underdo wne."  The 
version  is  of  the  slenderest  merit,  for  Underdowne 
was  no  poet,  and  the  loose  rattle  of  his  lines  is  neither 
an  echo  of  the  Latin  nor  an  original  harmony.  The 
Tudor  translators,  skilled  as  they  were  in  prose,  failed 
most  miserably  in  the  more  delicate  task  of  Englishing 
poetry,  while  the  truth  was  still  undiscovered  that  in 
a  strange  tongue  prose  is  the  best  equivalent  of  verse. 
The  incidental  lines,  which  break  the  march  of 
Heliodorus'  narrative,  are  turned  into  the  merest 
doggrel : 

To-morrow  shalt  thou  with  the  maide 

escape  Arsaces  band  : 
And  soone  be  brought  with  her  into 

the  Ethiopian  land. 

*  Under  1569  you  may  read  in  the  Registers:  "Recevyd  of 
Thomas  e  (a)st  for  his  lycense  for  the  pryntynge  of  a  booke 
intituled  OVIDE  Invictive  againste  Ibis  .  .  .  iiijd." 


HELIODORUS  69 

This  jingle  halts  for  an  elegiac  couplet,  in  the 
eighth  book  of  the  Mthiopica.  But  Underdowne 
had  already  determined  his  metre  when  he  laid  hands 
upon  the  Ibis,  and  thus  he  renders  Ovid's  exquisitely 
finished  verse : 

The  Spring  with  Autumne  shalbe  one 

with  Winter  Sommers  guyse  : 
And  in  one  countrey  shall  the  Sun 

at  once  both  set  and    yse. 
Ere  I  will  concord  have  with  thee, 

sith  thou  didst  breake  the  band  : 
And  set  these  weapons  clean  a  syde, 

that  I  have  tane  in  hand. 

And  not  content  v^^ith  thus  dishonouring  his  author, 
Underdowne  bombasts  out  his  book  with  classical 
mythology,  which,  for  all  its  characteristic  euphuism, 
is  well-nigh  unreadable,  and  inclines  you  to  believe 
that,  after  all,  Underdowne  was  a  pedant,  who,  like 
Philemon  Holland,  left  Oxford  for  an  usher's  stool, 
and  employed  a  scanty  leisure  in  the  Englishing  of 
Latin  verse  or  Greek  prose. 

Now,  this  brief  record  of  achievement  speaks  little 
of  Underdowne's  life  or  character.  But  the  preface 
to  the  /Ethiopian  Historie  convicts  him  of  a  pleasant 
coquetry  with  morality,  and  the  notes  which  adorn 
his  "margent,"  and  which,  as  the  author  too  san- 
guinely  suggests,  "will  well  supply  the  want  of  a 
table,"   amply  sustain  the  conviction.     For  it   is   in 


70  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

this  "margent"  that  the  translator  most  clearly 
reveals  himself.  His  erudition  is  no  less  obvious  than 
his  determination  to  do  good.  On  every  page  are 
such  pearls  of  the  commonplace  as  "Mans  life  un- 
stable "  or  "  A  w^oman  is  best  at  a  souden  attempt." 
At  times  he  will  quote  Seneca,  and  ''  Necessitas  plus 
poscit  quam  pietas  solet"  is  his  comment  upon 
Thisbe's  hasty  burial.  Or  he  w^ill  derive  instruction 
for  the  present  from  the  piety  of  the  past,  thus  proving 
his  implicit  faith  in  the  ^Ethiopian  History.  When 
Calasiris,  in  love  w^ith  Rhodopis, "  determined  not  to 
dishonest  the  Priesthoode,"  Underdowne  is  ready  with 
the  admirably  trite  reflection  :  ''  God  graunt  that  the 
honestie  of  this  heathen  priest  condemne  not  some  ot 
our  ministers  which  professe  the  gospel."  Is  that  not 
written  with  the  very  accent  of  Puritanism  ?  Or  he 
will  turn  for  his  sustenance  to  ancient  history,  and 
suggest  that  Charicles  '*  was  perhaps  of  Themistocles' 
opinion,  who  rather  chose  for  his  daughter  a  man  with- 
out money,  than  money  without  a  man."  But  though 
the  notes  do  not  serve  "  for  a  table,"  they  prove  that 
Underdowne's  instruction  was  sound  as  his  morality 
was  sincere. 

The  popularity  of  the  /Ethiopian  Historie  is  well 
attested  by  the  great  rarity  of  Underdowne's  tiny 
quarto.  The  book  that  drifts  to  the  fishmongers 
most  commonly  escapes  destruction  :  it  is  the  chap- 
book,  passed  through  a  thousand  hands,  that  is  read 
into  efFacement.  But  there  is  other  testimony  that 
Heliodorus  was  a  favourite  from  Elizabeth's  reign  to 


HELIODORUS  71 

the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Shakespeare* 
knew  him,  and  read  him,  you  may  be  certain,  in 
Underdowne's  version.  Not  a  few  other  translators 
tried  their  hand  upon  him,  accentuating  by  their 
childish  bungling  the  admirable  style  and  sense  of  the 
first  version.  Abraham  Fraunce,  for  instance,  in  The 
Countess  of  Pembroke's  Tvy  Church^\  would  parade  his 
scholarship  by  forcing  a  fragment  of  Heliodorus  into 
clumsy  hexameters.  Of  this  work  Ben  Jonson,  in  a 
conversation  with  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  said 
the  first  and  last  word  :  "  that  Abraham  Fraunce  in 
his  English  Hexameters  was  a  fool."  Concerning 
this  truth  there  is  no  argument,  and  10  read  Fraunce's 
Beginning  of  Heliodorus  his  Mthiopicall  History^  is  to 
prefer  the  unkempt  doggrel  of  Underdowne's  inter- 
ludes. Fortunately  the  "beginning"  only  occupies 
six  pages  j  but  the  Countess  of  Pembroke  can  scarce 
have  appreciated  such  stuff  as  this  : 

As  soone  as  Sun-beames  could  once  peepe  out  fro*  the 

mountaynes. 
And  by  the  dawne  of  day  had  somewhat  lightened 

Olympus, 

*  In  Twelfth  Night  (Act  V.  sc.  i.)  there  is  a  direct  reference  to 
Theagenes  and  CharicUa.     Says  Orsino : 

"  Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to  do  it, 
Like  to  the  Egyptain  thief,  at  point  of  death. 
Kill  what  Hove?" 
t  The  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Yvy  Church.     By  Abraham 
Fraunce.     London.    Printed  by  Thomas  Orwyn,  for  William 
Ponsonby,  dwelling  in  Paules  Churchyard,  at  the  signe  of  the 
Bishop's  Head.    1591. 


72  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

Men,  whose  lust  was  law,  whose  life  was  still  to  be 

lusting, 
Whose  thryving  thieving,  conveyd  themselves  to  an 

hil-top, 
That  stretched  forward  to  the  Heracleotical  entry 
And  mouth  of  Nylus  :  looking  thence  downe  to  the 

maine  sea 
For  sea-faring  men  ;  but  seeing  none  to  be  sayling, 
They  knew  'twas  booteless  to  be  looking  there  for  a 

booty. 

Yes,  Abraham  Fraunce  in  his  hexameters  was  a  fool. 
There  is  not  a  line  that  will  scan  without  violence  to 
sense  and  accent ;  and  the  brief  fragment's  sole  merit 
is  its  abrupt  termination. 

A  story  less  dramatic  than  Theagenes  and  ChartcUa 
can  scarce  be  imagined.  Its  essential  characteristic  is 
to  unfold  itself  after  the  manner  of  an  epic.  A  tangle 
of  episodes,  whose  chief  distinction  is  in  its  interludes, 
how  should  it  be  fitted  for  the  stage,  save  by  the  ex- 
cision of  all  but  the  love  of  hero  and  heroine  ?  Yet 
one  nameless  writer  was  courageous  enough  to  attempt 
the  impossible,  and  there  is  hidden  in  the  Karleian 
Collection  of  Manuscripts  a  poor,  foolish  play,  entitled 
The  White  Mthiopian^  still-born  of  Heliodorus.  From 
the  very  dawn  of  the  drama,  the  playwright  sought 
his  motive  in  novels,  and  while  the  masters  of  the  craft 
were  content  to  steal  a  hint  and  make  a  masterpiece, 
the  journeymen,  clinging  too  close  to  their  model, 
produced  nothing  better  than  a  series  of  dialogues. 
When  Tom  Hey  wood  failed  to  convert  The  Golden 


HELIODORUS  73 

Ass  into  a  respectable  masque,  our  unknown  writer 
could  not  hope  to  turn  so  inconsequent  a  piece  as 
the  Mthiopica  into  a  consistent  assemblage  of  acts  and 
scenes.  And  his  enterprise  fared  so  ill  that  not  even 
literary  curiosity  can  prompt  an  admiration  of  The 
White  Ethiopian.  No  ingenuity  of  construction,  no 
dignity  of  phrase  redeems  the  reckless  essay  from 
contempt.  In  describing  Theagenes  (among  the 
"  dramatis  personae  ")  as  a  "  gymnosophist,"  and  giving 
him  for  companions  two  other  "  gymnosophists," 
the  author  reveals  a  solitary  flash  of  unconscious 
humour.  But  this  is  insufficient  to  condone  a  prologue, 
four  acts,  and  an  epilogue,  composed  in  rhymed 
couplets  and  interrupted  by  songs.  The  play,  per- 
chance, was  written  by  some  student  of  the  University, 
at  once  to  display  his  erudition  and  to  win  him  a 
welcome  at  a  tavern.  By  a  wayward  chance  it  sur- 
vives, while  oblivion  snatches  much  that  is  ten  times 
more  worthy,  but  not  even  its  antiquity  is  likely  to 
procure  for  it  the  honour  of  print. 

Still  more  remarkable  is  WilHam  Lisle's  famous 
Historie  of  Heliodorus,  ''  Amplified,  augmented,  and 
delivered    paraphrastically   in    verse."*     The   earliest 

*  This  is  the  full  style  and  title  of  a  later  edition :  The 
famous  Historie  of  Heliodorus.  Amplified,  augmented  and 
delivered  paraphrastically  in  verse;  by  their  Majesties  most 
humble  subject  and  servant,  William  Lisle.  Whereunto  is  added 
divers  testimonies  of  learned  men  concerning  the  Author. 
Together  with  a  briefe  summary  of  the  whole  History.  London* 
Printed  by  John  Dawson  for  Francis  Eglesfield,  and  are  to  be 
sold  at  the  signe  of  the  Marigold  in  Pauls  Churchyard.     1638. 


74  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

edition  is  dated  1631,  and  the  prefatory  fragments  are 
enough  to  prove  that,  had  William  Lisle  elected  to 
write  in  prose,  his  work  would  have  had  a  fantastical 
interest.  For  though  he  displays  a  profound  ignorance 
of  verse,  he  handles  prose  with  an  elaborate  curiosity. 
The  testimonies  wherewith  he  prefaces  the  transla- 
tion are  set  forth  in  the  most  whimsical  terms.  Here, 
according  to  Lisle,  is  Melancthon's  judgment  upon 
Heliodorus :  "  His  style  is  neat,  not  smelling,  full  of 
excellent  variety,  delivering  counsailes,  occasions,  events 
and  affections  even  to  life."  Still  more  high-sounding 
is  his  version  of  Dempster's  eulogy  :  "  Heliodorus, 
the  Phcenix  of  Phcenicia :  an  elegant  writer  of  chast 
Love,  and  in  the  contexture  of  this  history  a  most 
elaborate  Author."  And  thereupon  Lisle,  laying  hands 
on  this  Phoenix  of  Phoenicia,  turns  him  to  ashes.  He 
elected  the  rhymed  couplet  to  represent  the  prose 
of  Heliodorus,  and  he  wrote  it  like  a  schoolboy : 
Blacke-winged  night  flew  to  th'  Antipodes 
At  sight  of  Morning  Starre,  and  the  Easterne  seas 
With-held  the  rising  Beame,  untill  it  guilt 
The  top  of  trees,  and  turrets  highest  built. 
And  so  on  for  many  a  weary  page.  Nor  was  he 
content  with  this  experiment :  he  must  needs  reflect 
upon  his  own  language  in  a  metrical  preface.  Thus 
his  criticism  opens : 

About  the  tongues  when  divers  with  me  wrangle, 
And  count  our  English  but  a  mingle-mangle, 
I  tell  them,  all  are  such,  and  in  conclusion 
Will  grow  so  more  by  curse  of  first  confusion. 


HELIODORUS  75 

The  familiar  style,  the  outlandish  words,  the  tripping 
metre,  remind  you  (at  a  distance)  of  Charles  Cotton, 
and  no  serious  work  was  ever  introduced  by  so  flippant 
a  fragment. 

But  with  William  Lisle,  English  was  not  yet  bank- 
rupt in  character,  and  it  was  a  later  generation  that 
mimicked  in  another  tongue  the  trivialities  of  the 
Mthtopica.  For  at  last  Heliodorus  fell  into  the  hands 
of  Nahum  Tate  and  a  Person  of  Quality.  Now, 
with  the  advent  of  the  Person  of  Quality  the  art  of 
translation  died  a  miserable  death.  When  this  cul- 
tured abstraction,  ill-equipped  for  the  task,  took  the 
Englishing  of  Latin  and  Greek  as  its  hobby,  colour 
and  distinction  had  vanished  from  our  prose.  The 
stateliness  of  the  Tudor  style  was  replaced  by  a 
glib  facility,  with  naught  to  recommend  it  save  a 
pretension  of  good  sense  and  simplicity.  Not  one  of 
the  "Various  Hands,"  for  instance,  who  with  Dryden's 
connivance  murdered  Lucian,  rose  to  a  proper  under- 
standing of  his  author,  and  yet  all  would  doubtless 
have  agreed  that  the  ancient  translators  were  out- 
rageous barbarians  who  understood  not  their  art. 
Assuredly  not  one  of  them  understood  it  after  the 
pedant's  own  fashion,  and  he  who  demands  a  word 
for  word  translation  had  better  betake  himself  to 
Dr.  Giles.  There  are,  however,  several  methods  of 
rendering  the  symbols  of  one  language  by  the  symbols 
of  another.  It  was  Robert  Browning's  opinion  that 
"  a  translation  should  be  literal  at  every  cost  save  that 
of  absolute  violence  to  our  language  " ;  and  Robert 


76  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Browning's  own  achievement  in  the  Agamemnon  should 
be  enough  to  refute  the  opinion.  For  in  that  version 
not  only  is  violence  continually  done  to  our  language, 
but  there  is  scarce  a  page  intelligible  without  the 
Greek.  A  literal  translation  generally  resembles  a 
photograph :  seemingly  true  to  its  original,  it  is 
essentially  and  inherently  false.  A  reckless  importance 
is  given  to  trivial  details,  and  while  the  outline  of  the 
object  is  still  recognisable,  its  beauty  and  character  are 
offered  a  sacrifice  to  a  mistaken  theory  of  accuracy. 
Transplant  a  verb  or  a  substantive  from  one  language 
to  another,  and  it  may  lose  all  savour  and  significance  : 
changing  its  place  in  a  sentence,  it  cannot  but  change 
its  effect.  To  an  ear  trained  in  the  loose-knit  license 
of  English,  the  austerer  syntax  of  Greek  may  appear 
somewhat  hard  and  constrained  ;  but  to  render  Helio- 
dorus  by  a  rigid  phrase  would  be  to  misreprent  his  aim 
and  his  meaning.  In  fact,  the  most  accomplished 
translators  have  treated  their  originals  with  the  utmost 
freedom,  assuring  themselves  of  fidelity  by  far  subtler 
methods  than  the  paltry  correspondence  of  balanced 
words.  Not  seldom  the  shortest  cut  to  an  accurate 
version  is  an  elaborate  detour  ;  not  seldom  is  it  neces- 
sary to  recede  as  far  as  possible  from  the  original  to 
ensure  a  harmonising  or  a  corresponding  effect. 
But  such  was  not  the  fashion  of  Nahum  Tate's 
time,  and  we  are  fortunate  to-day  in  returning  to  a 
juster  appreciation  of  the  triie  masterpieces.  To 
contrast  a  single  page  written  by  this  particular 
Person  of  Quality,  who  chose  Heliodorus  for  his  own 


HELIODORUS  ']'^ 

with  a  page  of  Underdowne's  sounding  prose,  is  to 
distinguish  a  living,  characteristic  style  from  an  effete 
and  faded  manner. 

And  yet,  a  worse  fate  was  in  store  for  Heliodorus — 
the  fate  of  neglect.  He  is  not  adventurous  enough  to 
satisfy  the  common  taste  for  blood,  he  is  not  intro- 
spective that  the  analyst  should  desire  him.  He  is  but 
a  romantic,  born  out  of  season,  blowing  the  trumpet, 
throwing  down  the  glove,  bidding  his  heroes  enter  the 
lists  to  compete  for  the  smiles  and  the  hands  of  fair 
women.  If  his  episodes  are  old-fashioned  to-day,  it 
is  because  they  have  been  unconsciously  stolen  by  an 
unbroken  line  of  novehsts.  But  as  he  is  not  appointed 
to  be  read  in  schools,  as  his  insipid  style  dismays  the 
amateur,  he  is  not  likely  to  recapture  his  popularity. 
No,  his  best  hope  of  immortality  lies  in  the  version  of 
Underdowne.  For  Underdowne,  though  he  had  but 
little  Greek,  understood  the  language  of  Romance, 
and  if  he  did  not  translate  his  author,  he  replaced  him, 
with  a  version  no  less  rich  in  invention  than  ingenious 
in  style. 


LAURENCE  STERNE 


LAURENCE   STERNE 


THE  hero  of  primitive  romance  was  the  lusty 
picaroon,  who  wandered  the  world  over  in 
search  of  adventures.  To  help  a  damsel  in  distress  or 
to  cut  a  brother's  purse — these  were  his  simple-hearted 
ambitions.  He  knew  no  other  motives  than  curiosity 
and  an  empty  pocket ;  and  as  he  was  merry  without 
reason,  so  he  suffered  without  regret.  Now  and  again 
his  enterprises  are  tedious  through  lack  of  invention  : 
so  industriously  does  he  pad  the  hoof  along  the  familiar 
highway,  so  intimately  does  he  accustom  you  to  his 
prodigies,  that  his  most  marvellous  escapes  are  seldom 
unexpected.  But  there  is  an  enchantment  even  in  his 
irresponsibility.  For  him  murder  and  rapine  are  rather 
the  expression  of  a  joyous  temper  than  the  illustrations 
of  a  theory,  he  develops  no  character  wherewith 
to  flatter  the  psychologist,  he  runs  his  course  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave  mainly  for  his  own  and  his 
readers'  disport,  and  he  wins  the  world's  gratitude  in 
that,  though  he  may  lapse  into  dulness,  his  purpose 
is  seldom  the  improvement  of  mankind. 

Now  the  brain,  too,  has  its  adventures :  there  is  a 

F 


82  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

picaresque,  also,  of  the  intellect.  This  other  adventurer 
wanders  in  a  limitless  and  ever-changing  land,  w^here 
the  highroad  is  set  with  ideas  for  trees,  where  there  are 
no  flowers  'save  sparkling  epigrams.  Here  the  only 
pockets  picked  are  the  brains  of  others,  the  maidens 
succoured  are  generous  impulses  ;  here,  instead  of  lives 
taken,  reputations  are  unlaced.  And  a  very  pretty 
fellow  he  may  appear,  this  intellectual  picaroon.  He 
is  akin  to  Lucian,  to  Athenacus,  to  Rabelais,  to  Burton. 
Never  weary  of  exploring  the  waste-places  of  know- 
ledge, he  will  break  a  lance  with  every  passing  paradox, 
and  with  the  sword  of  satire  in  his  hand  will  rescue 
Wit  from  the  dungeon  of  Stupidity.  No  enterprise  is 
too  high  for  his  courage,  no  desert  too  remote  for  his 
discovery,  and  you  may  set  out  with  him  when  you 
will,  confident  that  he  will  lead  you  through  pleasant 
places,  and  will  solace  the  journey  with  deeds  of 
speculative  intrepidity.  To  this  ingenious  confraternity 
Laurence  Sterne  belongs  ;  and  if  Gargontua  be  the 
Robinson  Crusoe  of  the  intellect,  if  the  Anatomy  be 
the  Gulliver  of  the  brain,  then  Tristram  Shandy 
takes  its  place  in  this  assembly  of  gallant  ventures 
as  the  Gil  Bias  of  the  spirit,  separated  always  by  a 
discreet  distance  from  the  peerless  Don  ^ixote  de  la 
Mancha^  the  supreme  example  of  the  picaroon  in  mind 
and  prowess  whereof  the  world's  literature  may  boast. 

For  Laurence  Sterne  is  a  prince  among  literary 
tramps,  a  king  in  the  Bohemia  of  phrase  and  fable. 
He  takes  the  road  with  a  debonair  frivolity,  starting 
nowhere  to  go  nowhither.     He  recognises  no  purpose 


LAURENCE   STERNE  83 

in  his  travel,  save  his  determination  to  be  rid  ot  useless 
encumbrance ;  it  even  irks  him  to  keep  to  the  big 
road,  and  no  sooner  has  he  ambled  a  dozen  paces  than 
he  skips  over  a  stile  or  takes  a  bridle-path.  To  follow 
his  track  is  an  enterprise  impossible ;  as  surely  as  you 
catch  a  glimpse  of  him  trudging  on  ahead,  so  surely 
shall  he  elude  you  at  the  next  corner.  His  Tristram 
Shandy  is  a  triumph  in  the  art*  of  digression.  Never 
was  a  book  patched  together  (you  cannot  say  composed) 
with  so  little  sense  of  a  plan  or  of  a  hero.  Its  very 
title,  The  Life  and  Opinions  of  Tristram  Shandy^ 
Gent. — is  purposely  misleading,  since  as  Tristram  is 
not  born  until  the  third  volume,  so  we  know  little 
more  of  his  career,  save  a  misadventure  with  a  window- 
sash,  the  dignity  of  his  breeching,  and  his  departure  for 
the  grand  tour  ;  while  that  critic  would  be  a  miracle  of 
ingenuity  who  should  disengage  from  the  nine  volumes 
a  single  opinion  that  does  not  belong  rather  to  the 
author  than  to  his  puppet. 

At  the  outset  Sterne  describes  his  policy,  or  rather 
lack  of  policy,  with  unwonted  circumstance,  and  for 
the  moment  we  are  compelled  to  give  him  our 
allegiance.  "Therefore,  my  dear  friend  and  com- 
panion," he  writes  in  the  first  volume,  "  if  you  should 
think  me  somewhat  sparing  of  my  narrative  on  my 
first  setting  out — bear  with  me, — and  let  me  go  on, 
and  tell  my  story  in  my  own  way  j  or,  if  I  should 
seem  now  and  then  to  trifle  upon  the  road, — or  should 
sometimes  put  on  a  fool's  cap  with  a  bell  to  it,  for  a 
moment  or  two  as  we  pass  along — don't  fly  oiF, — but, 


84  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

rather,  courteously  give  me  credit  for  a  little  more 
wisdom  than  appears  upon  my  outside  ; — and,  as  we 
jog  on,  either  laugh  with  me  or  at  me,  or  in  short  do 
anything, — only  keep  your  temper."  To  keep  your 
temper  is  seldom  difficult,  even  if  the  artifice  or 
digression,  pushed  beyond  the  limit  of  humour,  robs 
you  of  your  patience.  But  you  hesitate  before  you 
give  the  author  "  credit  for  more  wisdom  than  appears 
on  the  outside,"  since  it  is  evident  that  when  he  set  the 
full-stop  to  volume  two,  he  knew  not  what  volume  three 
would  bring  forth.  He  designed  the  book  for  a  medley 
of  humour  and  reflection,  of  pathos  and  impertinence. 
He  dreamed  half  seriously  of  Shandeism  raised  to  a 
philosophy  ;  his  vanity  almost  prayed  that  a  habit  of 
life  might  proceed  from  the  turns  and  twists  of  his 
flippancy.  "  I  have  converted  many  unto  Shandeism," 
he  wrote  to  Garrick  from  Paris — "  for  be  it  known,  I 
Shandy  it  away  fifty  times  more  than  ever  I  was  wont, 
talk  more  nonsense  than  ever  you  heard  me  talk  in 
your  days — and  to  all  sorts  of  people."  No  wonder  the 
Comte  de  Choiseul  was  amazed.  "  Qui  le  diable  est 
cet  homme-la,  ce  Chevalier  Shandy,"  he  is  said  to  have 
asked,  thereby  enchanting  Sterne.  And  by  an  irony 
the  Chevalier  is  remembered  most  tenderly  as  a 
delineator  of  character.  To  reflect  upon  his  master- 
piece is  to  call  up  the  images  of  My  Uncle  Toby  and 
My  Father,  of  Yorick  and  Trim,  of  My  Mother  and 
Dr.  Slop.  The  preference  is  just  and  inevitable.  The 
personages  of  the  book  are  more  ingenious  than  its 
theory,  but  they  chime  with  their  author's  aimlessness. 


LAURENCE  STERNE  85 

and  you  will  better  appreciate  them  if  first  you  master 
the  principles  of  Shandeism. 

Shandeism,  then,  is  a  genial  humour  tempered  by  an 
exaggerated  sensibility.  There  are  no  facts  nor  fictions 
of  life  which  may  not  be  resolved  in  accordance  with 
its  tenets,  if  only  it  be  remembered  that  the  grave 
controversy  must  be  flippantly  considered,  that  a 
proper  solemnity  puts  the  best  face  upon  a  frivolous 
discussion.  Erudition,  false  by  preference,  is  a 
necessary  accompaniment,  and  the  witty  story  a 
pleasurable  interlude.  The  theory,  as  well  as  its 
exposition,  is  borrowed  from  Rabelais  ;  and  Sterne, 
ever  a  thrifty  soul,  is  scarce  original  in  his  own 
defence.  "  True  Shandeism,"  he  says,  with  more 
than  a  reminiscence  of  Pantagruel,  "think  what  you 
will  against  it,  opens  the  heart  and  lungs,  and,  like  all 
those  affections  which  partake  of  its  nature,  it  forces 
the  blood  and  other  vital  fluids  of  the  body  to  run 
freely  through  its  channels,  makes  the  wheel  of  life 
run  long  and  cheerfully  round." 

A  well-founded  boast,  so  far  as  touches  the  humour 
of  Shandeism.  For  Sterne  is  humorous  not  only  in 
his  character  but  in  his  incident.  What  could  be 
wittier,  for  all  its  theft,  than  the  various  spirit 
wherein  the  news  of  My  brother  Bobby's  death  is 
received  ?  Where  is  a  scene  conceived  in  a  finer 
vein  of  folly  than  the  bed  of  justice,  held  upon 
the  Breeching  of  Tristram  ?  The  Tristrapadia^ 
moreover,  is  a  marvel  of  whimsical  instruction. 
And  the  episode  of  the  midwife,  the  clauses  of  My 


86  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Mother's  marriage-settlement,  the  dissertation  upon 
Christian  names,  the  influence  of  nose  upon  character,, 
Mr.  Shandy's  incomparable  letter  concerning  love  and 
its  dietary — are  not  these  separate  oddities  treated  with 
a  learning  that  is  ever  gay,  with  a  gaiety  that  is  ever 
learned?  But  before  all  is  the  habit  of  disputation 
most  pompously  burlesqued,  and  a  climax  is  reached 
when  the  decay  of  eloquence  is  gravely  ascribed  with 
a  true  Rabelaisian  touch  to  "nothing  else  in  the 
world  but  short  coats  and  the  disuse  of  trunk  hose.'* 
Nor  is  the  wayward  design  of  the  chapters  one 
whit  less  amusing  :  it  is  impossible,  for  example,  to 
withhold  a  laugh  from  the  King  of  Bohemia,  whose 
story  never  gets  told  by  Corporal  Trim.  And 
none  ever  compassed,  wupa  TrpocrSoKiav,  more  or 
more  delightful  topsy-turvydoms  of  speech  :  "We'll 
go,  brother  Toby^  said  my  father,  whilst  dinner  is 
coddling — to  the  Abbey  of  Saint  Germain,  if  it  be 
only  to  see  these  bodies,  of  which  Monsieur  Sequier 
has  given  such  a  recommendation. — I'll  go  see  any- 
body, quoth  my  uncle  Toby  ;  for  he  was  all  compliance 
through  every  step  of  the  journey. — Defend  me  !  said 
my  father — they  are  all  mummies. — Then  one  need 
not  shave,  quoth  my  uncle  TohyT  The  irrelevance  of 
that  reply  is  a  joy  which  no  familiarity  can  stale. 

But  if  Sterne  tickled  the  humours  of  incongruity 
with  the  lightest  of  light  fingers,  if  he  made  a  wise 
man's  sport  with  the  follies  of  erudition,  he  failed,  as 
only  a  sentimentalist  can  fail,  in  the  province  of  pathos. 
Once    he   changes   laughter   for   tears,   he   loses   all 


<v^' 


LAURENCE   STERNE  87 

sense  of  proportion.  There  is  no  trifle,  animate  or 
inanimate,  he  will  not  bewail,  if  he  be  but  in  the 
mood  ;  nor  does  it  shame  him  to  dangle  before  the 
public  gaze  those  poor  shreds  of  sensibility  he  calls 
his  feehngs.  Though  he  seldom  deceives  the  reader 
into  sympathy,  none  will  turn  from  his  choicest  agony 
without  a  thrill  of  aesthetic  disgust.  The  Sentimental 
"Journey^  despite  its  interludes  of  tacit  humour  and 
excellent  narrative,  is  the  last  extravagance  of  irrele- 
vant grief.  The  road  from  Calais  to  Paris  is  watered 
with  Yorick's  tears.  Whether  a  dead  ass  or  a  live 
starhng  be  the  excuse,  whether  the  misery  spring 
from  the  absent  Eliza  or  the  very  present  Maria,  the 
pose  and  folly  of  the  mourner  are  not  dissembled. 
Though  it  were  easy  to  prove  that  Sterne  was  stoically 
indifferent  to  the  woes  of  others,  the  demonstration  is 
inapposite,  since  a  writer  may  be  a  monster  of  cruelty 
and  yet  possess  the  talent  of  moving  his  readers  to  a 
willing  grief.  But  genuine  sentiment  was  as  strange 
to  Sterne  the  writer  as  to  Sterne  the  man  ;  and  he 
conjures  up  no  tragic  figure  that  is  not  stuffed  with 
sawdust  and  tricked  out  in  the  rags  of  the  green-room. 
Fortunately,  there  is  scant  opportunity  for  idle  tears 
in  Tristram  Shandy^  whose  spirit  of  burlesque  is  too 
volatile  for  pathos.  Yet  no  occasion  is  lost,  and  the 
joyous  comedy  is  not  without  its  blemishes.  Yorick's 
death  is  false  alike  to  nature  and  to  art.  The  vapid 
emotion  is  properly  matched  with  a  commonness  of 
expression,  and  the  bad  taste  is  none  the  more  readily 
excused  by  the  suggestion  of  self-defence.     Even  the 


88  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

humour  of  My  Uncle  Toby  is  something  degraded  by 
the  oft-quoted  platitude :  "  Go,  poor  devil,"  says  he, 
to  an  over-grown  fly  which  had  buzzed  about  his  nose, 
"get  thee  gone.  Why  should  I  hurt  thee?  This 
world  surely  is  big  enough  to  hold  both  thee  and  me." 
And  who  would  not  spare  Le  Fevre's  lachrymose 
death-bed  at  the  inn  ?  Sentimentality,  indeed,  is 
Sterne's  sorriest  weakness,  and  if  it  makes  but  a  modest 
encroachment  upon  Tristram  Shandy^  it  turns  many 
of  the  Letters  to  ridicule,  and  reserves  its  worst 
excesses  for  that  journey  of  reflection,  "through 
France  and  Italy,"  where  the  mind  wanders  further 
afield  than  the  body,  where  the  true  traveller  is  the 
brain. 

But  though  Tristram  is  free  from  the  grosser  taint 
of  pathos,  it  is  marred  by  a  kindred  vice.  In  places  it 
is  manifestly  obscene.  Now,  in  life,  obscenity  may 
prove  immoral  ;  in  literature,  it  is  a  question  of  taste  ; 
and  it  is  improper,  as  well  as  superfluous,  to  charge 
Sterne  with  an  outrage  upon  the  virtues.  The 
Puritan,  through  lack  of  imagination,  is  wont  to  try 
literature  by  the  same  narrow  standard  which 
strengthens  him  to  condemn  the  conduct  of  his 
brothers.  He  no  sooner  reads  of  an  impropriety, 
than  he  visualises  it,  and,  bereft  of  humour,  shudders  at 
what  he  deems  the  wickedness  of  print.  As  though 
an  artist  were  guilty  of  every  act  he  chronicles  !  As 
though  every  jest,  transcending  the  experience  of  the 
suburbs,  should  be  brought  to  justice  and  visited  with 
the   common    fine  of  forty  shillings  !     But  Sterne's 


LAURENCE   STERNE  89 

offence  being  proven,  acquittal  is  impossible  despite 
the  extenuating  circumstances.  He  is  not  overtly 
immoral,  alas  !  he  is  only  too  pure.  He  is  always 
hankering  after  a  licence  he  dare  not  enjoy ;  and  his 
obscenity  is  but  his  sentiment  in  another  form.  Each 
vice  springs  from  a  constant  incapacity  to  see  things 
in  a  sane  relation.  Had  Sterne  always  been  as  frank 
as  Rabelais,  you  had  not  noticed  the  indecency.  Also, 
that  he  could  be  frank,  if  he  pleased,  there  are  a  dozen 
passages  to  prove.  My  Uncle  Toby's  courtship  is 
without  reproach,  since  the  Widow  Wadman  never 
encountered  her  bashful  lover  without  a  boisterous 
rally.  And  the  invention  of  the  earlier  chapters  is  as 
fresh  as  their  treatment  is  sound. 

But  while  Rabelais'  laugh,  open  and  rotund,  is  borne 
upon  the  ear  without  shame  and  without  disguise, 
Sterne  too  often  sniggers  and  smirks  at  his  reader's 
surprise,  proving  that,  whether  he  be  sentimental  or 
obscene,  he  is  still  self-conscious.  As  he  poses  for 
a  marvel  of  sensibility,  so  he  would  appear  completely 
emancipated.  "  Behold,"  he  cries,  "  how  valiantly  I 
tread  the  orderly  conventions  beneath  my  feet !  Am 
I  not,  as  Voltaire  would  have  it,  the  English  Rabelais? 
Is  there  any  ordinance  of  purity  which  I  respect  !  " 
And  the  answer  comes  :  "  Yes,  you  respect  them  all  ; 
you  are  the  legitimate  ancestor  of  the  impuritans,  who 
have  made  our  own  generation  an  occasion  of  ridicule. 
When  you  would  be  brave,  you  are  tiresome.  You 
attempt,  with  the  satisfaction  of  the  salacious  school- 
boy, to  tickle  the  sensibility  of  the  innocent.     But 


90  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

you  never  cease  to  exclaim  upon  your  freedom,  to 
boast  of  your  jollity  in  that  spirit  of  self-consciousness 
which  convicts  you  of  a  malicious  and  inartistic 
purpose.  In  brief,  you  omit  no  opportunity  of  blink- 
ing behind  the  arras,  and  your  indecency  proceeds  not 
from  what  you  reveal,  but  from  what  you  cover  up, 
with  your  ogling  shamefacedness."  Between  Yorick 
and  Rabelais  lies  the  chasm  impassable.  "Never 
trust  those  men,"  said  Pantagruel,  "  that  always  peep 
out  at  one  hole."  And  Sterne  is  among  the  untrust- 
worthy. Whatever  be  the  topic,  he  will,  an  he  can, 
pervert  it  to  an  unuttered  obscenity.  He  has  not 
even  the  excuse  of  delighting  in  strange  words.  An 
unwonted  expression,  a  forbidden  word,  lights  up  a 
page,  as  the  friends  of  Gargantua  know,  with  irre- 
sistible effect.  There  is  none  fit  to  appreciate  good 
literature  that  applies  the  full-blooded,  wanton  joyous- 
ness  of  Rabelais  or  Petronius  to  the  experience  of 
common  life.  Colour,  movement,  unexpectedness, 
are  the  qualities  of  a  humour  that  is  broad  as  well  as 
wholesome,  and  these  qualities  appeal  to  the  literary 
sense  alone. 

But  Sterne  is  ever  reticent  ;  he  is  always  "  macerat- 
ing his  sensuality."  Only  on  one  page  of  his  book 
does  he  use  conspicuously  "  bad "  words,  and  then 
he  divides  them  between  an  abbess  and  a  novice. 
Nor  does  his  attempted  justification  palliate  his  impure 
purity.  "  Heaven  is  witness,"  he  protests,  "  how 
the  world  has  revenged  itself  upon  me  for  leaving  so 
many  openings   to    equivocal  strictures — and  for  de- 


LAURENCE   STERNE  91 

pending  so  much  as  I  have  done,  all  along,  upon  the 
cleanliness  of  my  reader's  imagination."  'Tis  said,  of 
course,  in  irony,  since  he  always  insists  that  his 
"  reader's  imagination  "  should  supply  the  words  his 
own  tongue  dare  not  utter.  Aposippesis  is  the  essence 
of  Tristram^  as  it  is  the  end  of  the  Sentimental  yourney^ 
and  there  is  an  artistic  meanness  in  setting  an  ox  upon 
your  tongue,  and  reproaching  those  you  invite  to  drive 
it  off.  "  Heaven  forbid,"  he  wrote  again  in  a  famous 
letter,  "the  stock  of  chastity  should  be  lessened  by 
The  Life  and  Opinions  of  Tristram  Shandy^^  and,  as 
only  the  dullard  or  the  maniac  deadens  or  enhances  his 
chastity  by  literature,  the  prayer  was  doubtless  heard. 
But  there  is  an  artistic  as  well  as  a  moral  chastity, 
"  by  nature,  the  gentlest  of  all  affections  ; "  and 
Sterne  "  gave  it  its  head,"  so  that  with  him  "  'tis  like 
a  ramping  and  a  roaring  lion." 

Frankness,  in  brief,  is  the  only  purity  ;  and  while 
Rabelais  is  without  blame,  the  reticence  of  Sterne  too 
nearly  resembles  a  purposed  sentimentality,  the  in- 
human horror  of  the  modern  novel.  And  all  the  while 
he  hoped  his  "  indecorums "  might  prove  a  source  of 
profit.  He  confides  to  Garrick  an  ingenious  arrange- 
ment made  with  Crebillon :  each  should  recriminate 
upon  the  "Hberties"  of  the  other,  and  the  money 
should  be  divided  equally.  Though  the  pamphlet  never 
appeared,  it  was  "  good  Swiss- Policy,"  but  not  the 
artifice  of  a  writer  affronted  by  "  unclean  imagina- 
tions." Worse  still,  the  "  obscenity "  is  commonly 
dull.     The   mind  which   delights   in   the   Abbess   of 


92  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Andouillets,  and  laughs  over  the  embarrassment  of 
Phutatorius  with  the  chestnuts,  will  honestly  deplore 
the  dead  ass,  and  believe  that  the  Traveller's  tears 
welled  from  an  honest  and  a  sympathetic  heart. 

When  we  turn  from  Shandeism  to  the  characters  of 
the  romance,  there  is  naught  but  praise  for  the  author. 
It  is  of  a  piece  with  Sterne's  whimsicality,  that  setting 
out  upon  a  voyage  of  reflection,  he  was  happiest  with 
the  personages  he  encountered  by  the  way.  To  speak 
temperately  of  the  brothers  Shandy  is  impossible,  and 
were  ungracious.  They  are  eternal  with  the  eternity 
of  literature.  From  the  mist  of  false  erudition  and 
flippant  Shandeism  they  emerge,  poignantly  realised 
and  exquisitely  shaped.  How  could  either  find  a 
better  foil  ?  My  Father's  habit  of  contention  is  most 
admirably  countered  by  My  Uncle  Toby's  Argumentum 
Fistulatorium ;  the  complex  folly  of  the  one  could  not 
be  more  nicely  balanced  than  by  the  childlike  gravity 
of  the  other.  The  innocence  of  My  Uncle  Toby 
does  but  increase  his  humanity,  and  none  that  is  his 
friend  endures  him  off  his  hobby-horse.  Whenever 
My  Father's  erudition  is  befogged  by  My  Uncle 
Toby's  simplicity,  laughter  is  inevitable,  and  the  per- 
sistence wherewith  Uncle  Toby  accepts  Mr.  Shandy's 
metaphysical  discoveries  as  contributions  to  the  art  of 
fortification  is  never  tedious.  And  Sterne  was  vividly 
conscious  of  the  excellence  of  his  own  creation.  "  So 
much  am  I  delighted  with  My  Uncle  Toby's  imagi- 
nary character,"  he  wrote  to  Lady ,  "  that  I  am 

become    an    enthusiast,"    and    the    world    is   easily 


LAURENCE    STERNE  93 

persuaded  to  share  his  enthusiasm.  One  knows  not 
which  is  the  more  admirable,  the  Captain's  hobby- 
horse or  the  Captain's  courtship,  while  Trim,  with  his 
Montero  hat  and  his  Turkish  tobacco  pipes,  is  the 
properest  and  most  fantastical  of  corporals. 

More  complicated,  yet  in  a  sense  less  original,  is  My 
Father's  personality — more  complicated,  because  it 
depends  upon  the  quips  and  cranks  of  sham  learning — 
less  original,  because  it  is  drawn  from  books  as  well  as 
from  life.  From  one  point  of  view  it  is  a  literary 
concretion.  Mr.  Traill,  in  his  excellent  monograph, 
would  have  him  a  personification  of  "  theory  run 
mad,"  but  whether  such  be  the  intent,  or  whether  he 
be  an  anthropomorphism  of  Burton's  Anatomy^  he  is 
still  the  most  whimsical  philosopher  in  literature. 
And  My  Mother — with  what  skill  is  her  unyielding 
stupidity  suggested  !  Despite  her  few  appearances, 
she  and  her  invincible  irresponsiveness  are  as  familiar 
as  Mr.  Shandy's  antic  knowledge  or  My  Uncle 
Toby's  amiability.  And  the  others — Dr.  Slop,  the 
man-midwife,  the  honest,  sensitive  Corporal,  the 
alluring  Widow  Wadman,  even  Susanna  and  Bridget 
— are  they  not  all  drawn  with  as  sure  a  hand  as  the 
Shandy  brothers,  if  with  less  distinction  than  that 
noble  pair  ? 

This  briefly  is  the  unrivalled  achievement  of 
the  book  :  to  have  furnished  forth  a  gallery  of 
living  portraits,  whose  features  the  world  is  as 
likely  to  forget  as  to  despise.  And  the  characters 
live,  because  Sterne  never  disdained  nature.     Had  his 


94  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

father  not  been  captain  in  a  marching  regiment,  My 
Uncle  Toby  and  the  Corporal  might  have  lacked 
verisimilitude.  Even  w^hen  he  coloured  his  observa- 
tion with  caricature,  he  still  drew  from  Hfe,  and  his 
less  amiable  personages  were  recognised  with  resent- 
ment. Dr.  Slop  was  known  at  once  for  a  travesty  of 
Dr.  Burton,  a  Jacobite,  whom  Sterne's  uncle  had 
arrested  upon  a  charge  of  high  treason.  And  a 
certain  nameless  doctor  attacked  the  author  of  Tristram 
in  set  terms  for  having,  as  he  said,  dishonoured  the 
memory  of  Dr.  Mead.  The  controversy  matters  not 
a  jot  to-day,  and  is  only  memorable  because  it  illus- 
trates Sterne's  theory  of  portraiture,  and  gave  him  an 
opportunity  to  justify  his  work,  as  well  as  to  prove 
how  fallacious  is  the  maxim  "  de  mortuis  nil  nisi 
bonum." 

But  not  only  had  he  met  his  characters  in 
the  flesh ;  many  a  picturesque  episode,  many  a 
dramatic  scene,  was  prompted  by  his  long  experience 
of  a  Yorkshire  village.  Shandy  Hall,  its  intimates 
and  estates,  had  an  existence,  you  are  sure,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  StilHngton.  To  quote  a  single 
instance  :  when  My  Aunt  Dinah  left  My  Father  a 
legacy  of  a  thousand  pounds,  he  straightway  debated 
whether  he  should  enclose  Oxmoor,  "a  fine,  large, 
whinny,  undrained,  unimproved  common,"  or  send 
My  Brother  Bobby  forth  upon  the  Grand  Tour. 
Similar  projects  of  enclosure  engrossed  the  country 
clergyman,  and  thus  he  complains  to  his  cousin : 
"'Tis    a    church   militant   week   with    me,    full    of 


LAURENCE   STERNE  95 

marches  and  counter-marches — and  treaties  about 
Stillington  Common,  which  we  are  going  to  enclose." 
Such  then  is  the  relation  of  the  romance  to  life,  and 
such  the  faculty  of  observation  whereby  it  is  separated 
from  its  distinguished  model,  The  Anatomy  of  Melan- 
choly. 

But  if  Sterne  owed  much  to  experience,  he  owed 
more  to  books,  and  it  is  impossible  to  consider  Tris- 
tram Shandy  apart  from  its  origins.  Yet  so  con- 
summately shameless  are  the  thefts  of  Yorick,  that 
reproach  is  forgotten  in  amazement.  Like  a  true 
highwayman,  he  commits  his  robberies  on  every 
road  of  literature.  Without  hesitation  or  remorse,  he 
bids  his  betters  stand  and  deliver,  tricking  out  his  own 
person  with  whatever  treasures  fall  into  his  hand.  His 
debt  to  Rabelais  was  patent  from  the  first ;  indeed  he 
never  ventured  upon  concealment.  The  very  frame- 
work of  his  book  is  borrowed,  and  for  Shandean  read 
Pantagruelian,  and  you  recognise  that  not  even  the 
philosophy  is  original.  Careless  as  he  commonly 
is  of  expression,  he  does  not  disdain  to  prig  the  cadence 
of  a  phrase.  "  Now,  my  dear  anti-Shandeans,  and 
thrice  able  criticks  and  fellow-labourers  (for  to  you  I 
write  this  Preface) " ;  thus  Sterne  echoes  the  first 
lines  of  Urquhart's  Gargantua :  ''  Most  noble  and 
illustrious  drinkers,  and  you  thrice  precious  pockified 
blades  (for  to  you  and  none  else  do  I  dedicate  my 
writings)." 

But  it  was  not  until  the  appearance  of  Dr. 
Ferriar's     Illustrations    that    the    full     measure    was 


96  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

taken  of  Yorick's  depredation.  Never  was  a  stranger 
tribute  paid  by  disciple  to  his  master.  It  was  for 
Sterne's  sake,  said  Ferriar,  that  he  plodded  through 
''  miry  ways  of  antic  wit,  and  quibbling  mazes  drear  ;  " 
as  well  might  a  prosecuting  counsel  claim  the  grati- 
tude of  the  prisoner  skulking  in  the  dock.  For  this 
disciple  convicted  his  master  of  indiscriminate  and 
unwarrantable  theft.  It  is  true  that  once  upon  the 
quest  he  pushes  his  ingenuity  too  far,  and  makes  dis- 
coveries which  the  finest  subtlety  might  overlook. 
But  the  main  charge  is  most  ably  sustained,  and 
Tristram  is  revealed,  in  one  aspect,  an  industrious 
mosaic.  Rabelais  and  Beroalde,  Montaigne  and  Bishop 
Hall,  Bruscambille  and  Burton  are  one  and  all  laid 
under  contribution.  Rabelais'  part  in  the  chapter  on 
Noses  is  indirectly  acknowledged,  and  if,  when  Yorick 
relates  the  contest  between  Tripet  and  Gymnast,  he 
omits  to  explain  that  it  is  taken  from  Urquhart's 
Rabelaisy  at  least  the  fragment  is  printed  between 
inverted  commas.  Moreover,  his  admiration  for  Pan- 
tagruel  is  plainly  avowed.  "  By  the  ashes  of  my  dear 
Rabelais,  and  dearer  Cervantes  "  is  the  choicest  of  his 
oaths,  and  more  than  once  he  quotes  openly  from  the 
curate  of  Meudon. 

But  his  respect  for  Burton  is  at  once  more 
secret  and  more  practical.  Though  he  nowhere 
mentions  his  master's  name,  he  lies  under  a  hundred 
unrevealed  obligations.  Not  only  does  he  adapt 
the  habit  of  erudite  quotation,  but  he  steals  quota- 
tion,   phrase,   and    all.     For   instance,   Mr.   Sterne's 


LAURENCE   STERNE 


97 


edifying  reflections  upon  the  death  of  My  Brother 
Bobby  are  lifted  bodily  from  the  Anatomy.  One 
example  of  his  method  will  serve  as  well  as  another,, 
but  surely  parallel  columns  never  exposed  a  more: 
abandoned  conveyance : 


Burton. 

Returning  out  of  Asia^ 
when  I  sailed  from  ^gina 
towards  Megara,  T  began  to 
view  the  country  round 
about.  -(lEgina  was  behind 
me,  Megara  before,  Pyrseus 
on  the  right  hand,  Corinth 
on  the  left ;  what  flourish- 
ing towns  heretofore  now 
prostrate  and  overwhelmed 
before  mine  eyes  !  Alas^ 
why  are  we  men  so  much 
disquieted  with  the  depar- 
ture of  a  friend,  whose  life 
is  much  shorter,  when  sa 
many  goodly  cities  lie 
buried  before  us  ?  Remem- 
ber, O  Servius,  thou  art  a 
man  ;  and  with  that  I  wa& 
much  confirmed,  and  cor- 
rected myself. 

True,  Sterne  confesses  the  passage  an  extract  from 
Servius  Sulpicius'  consolatory  letter  to  Tully ;  true 
also,  with  characteristic  whimsicality,  he  makes  My^ 

G 


Sterne. 
Returning  out  of  Asia, 
when  I  sailed  from  ^gina 
towards  Megara,  I  began  to 
view  the  country  round 
about,  ^gina  was  behind 
me,  Megara  was  before  me, 
Pyraeus  on  the  right  hand, 
Corinth  on  the  left.  What 
flourishing  towns  now  pros- 
trate on  the  earth  !  Alas  ! 
alas  !  said  I  to  myself,  that 
a  man  should  disturb  his 
soul  for  the  loss  of  a  child, 
when  so  much  as  this  lies 
awfully  buried  in  his  pre- 
sence. Remember,  said  I 
to  myself  again — remember 
that  thou  art  a  man. 


98  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Uncle  Toby,  mindful  of  My  Father's  concern  in  the 
Turkey  trade,  put  the  question  :  "  And  pray,  brother, 
what  year  of  our  Lord  was  this  ?  "  But  there  is  no 
mention  of  Burton,  and  Sterne  maybe  trusted  with 
whole-hearted  confidence  to  the  ignorance  of  his 
fellows.  Meaner  still  are  the  paltrier  loans — the  loans 
of  phrase  or  witty  turn.  Even  if  it  be  pleaded  that 
a  tangle  of  quotations  comes  apt  to  the  purpose  of 
Tristram^  the  pilfering  of  a  line  has  no  justifica- 
tion. Yet  Sterne,  having  gone  once  to  the  cupboard, 
cannot  stay  his  hand.  "But  where  am  I?"  he 
exclaims,  involved  in  too  deep  a  consideration  ;  "  and 
into  what  a  delicious  riot  of  things  am  I  rushing  ? " 
A  travesty,  in  fact,  of  one  of  B  urton's  conclusions : 
"  But  where  am  I  ?  into  what  subject  have  I 
rushed  ?  "  Again,  cries  Sterne  in  his  preface  :  "  Lay 
hold  of  me — I  am  giddy — I  am  stoneblind — Fm  dying 
— I  am  gone— Help  !  help  !  help  !  "  ;  and  again  Dr. 
Ferriar  quotes  from  Burton  :  "But,  hoo  !  I  am  now 
gone  quite  out  of  sight :  I  am  almost  giddy  with 
roving  about." 

But  in  his  eagerness  to  keep  up  an  appearance  of 
honesty,  Sterne  permits  himself  a  still  more  daring 
freedom  :  he  steals  Burton's  own  condemnation  of  the 
plagiarist.  "  Shall  we  for  ever  make  new  books  as 
apothecaries  make  new  mixtures,"  asks  this  stalwart 
champion  of  originality,  "  by  pouring  only  out  of  one 
vessel  into  another  ?  Are  we  for  ever  to  be  twisting 
and  untwisting  the  same  rope,  for  ever  in  the  same 
track,  for  ever  at  the  same  pace  ?  "     And  turning  to 


LAURENCE  STERNE  99 

Burton  you  trace  the  ironical  felony  :  /'As  apothe- 
caries we  make  new  mixtures  every  day,  pour  out  of 
one  vessel  into  another  j  and  as  those  old  Romans 
robbed  all  the  cities  of  the  world,  to  set  out  their  bad- 
sited  Rome,  we  skim  off  the  cream  of  other  men's 
wits,  pick  the  choice  flowers  of  their  tilled  gardens,  to 

set  out  our  own  sterile  plots We  weave  the 

same  web  still,  twist  the  same  rope  again  and  again." 
How  Sterne  must  have  laughed  at  his  own  impudence  ! 
Yet  the  criminal  cannot  escape  with  a  laugh,  and  he 
leaves  the  inquiry  with  many  a  stain  upon  his 
character. 

In  truth,  he  oversets  all  one's  theories  of  plagiary. 
When  Virgil  was  charged  with  stealing  from  Ennius, 
he  answered,  without  a  thought  of  his  victim  :  "  I  did 
but  take  pearls  from  a  dung-heap."  Neither  Shake- 
speare nor  Moliere,  one  fancies,  felt  an  acute  sympathy 
with  the  writers  they  plundered  ;  and  they  are  readily 
absolved,  since  the  greatest  can  do  no  wrong.  They 
stripped  their  inferiors,  that  is  all ;  and  rewarded  them 
with  a  vicarious  immortality.  But  Sterne  picked  the 
brains  of  wiser  men.  Yorick's  most  ardent  admirer 
would  scarcely  insist  that  Burton  and  Rabelais  were 
honoured  by  the  contribution  levied  upon  them.  No: 
he  tricked  himself  out  in  the  plumage  of  nobler  birds, 
and  claimed  the  stolen  feathers  for  his  own.  Even  his 
sermons  profited  by  his  thievery,  and  those  there  are 
who  decree  this  his  most  heinous  sin.  But  the  ques- 
tion is  over  subtle,  and  the  flippant  may  urge  that  the 
sacred   occasion   gave    but   a   pleasant   sauce    to    his 


100  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

humour.  Tried  by  the  easiest  code  of  morals,  he  is- 
found  guilty,  since  there  is  no  law  of  literary  honour 
that  he  does  not  violate.  Yet  his  very  flippancy  saves 
him  from  a  heavy  sentence,  especially  as  he  may  plead 
in  extenuation  an  absence  of  motive. 

However  much  of  its  satire  Tristram  owes  to 
Burton's  erudite  collections,  Sterne  did  not  lack  wit,  and 
he  might  have  composed  his  book  without  incurring  a 
single  debt.  Was  he  then  guilty  of  a  vulgar  klepto- 
mania? Was  he  unable  to  withhold  his  hand  from  the 
property  of  others  ?  Or  shall  we  set  his  villainy  down  to 
the  humours  of  Shandeism  ?  "  Je  prends  mon  bien  ou 
je  le  trouve,"  he  might  have  murmured  with  a  shrug  of 
frivolity,  esteeming  his  furtive  villainy  no  worse  than 
a  culmination  of  his  own  philosophy.  Yet  another 
explanation  is  possible.  He  may  have  set  a  wanton 
trap  to  catch  his  readers.  He  may  have  planned  a 
deliberate  attack  upon  their  ignorance.  You  Hke  to 
believe  it,  and  the  belief  does  no  injustice  to  his 
character.  But  whatever  the  excuse,  his  crime  was 
successful.  For  a  while  he  escaped  detection  with 
marvellous  felicity,  and  so  skilfully  did  he  throw  dust 
in  the  critics'  eyes,  that  Diderot  sets  it  down  to  his 
peculiar  glory,  that  alone  of  his  countrymen  he  was 
guiltless  of  theft.  And  when  at  last  his  robbery  wa& 
revealed,  the  veil  was  Hfted  with  so  gentle  a  hand,  that 
Yorick's  wandering  spirit  could  scarce  resent  the  dis- 
covery. After  all,  let  us  temper  the  wind  of  justice  to 
the  shorn  lamb  of  his  iniquity,  since  that  which  is  best 
in  Sterne  is  still  Sterne's  own,  and  not  all  the  pedants- 


LAURENCE   STEkNE  "  "  '    '  'ibf 

in  the  world  could  have  improved  by  a  touch  the  por- 
trait of  My  Uncle  Toby. 

His  style,  on  the  other  hand,  is  unborrowed,  and,  if 
at  times  it  be  admirably  suited  to  the  matter,  it  is 
seldom  distinguished  and  uniformly  inaccurate.  He 
set  out  upon  the  road  of  authorship  with  a  false  ideal : 
^'Writing,"  said  he,  "when  properly  managed,  is  but 
a  different  name  for  conversation."  It  would  be  juster 
to  assert  that  writing  is  never  properly  managed,  un- 
less it  be  removed  from  conversation  as  far  as  possible. 
But  familiarity  is  Sterne's  essential  weakness.  He 
spins  his  sentences  with  a  sublime  nonchalance.  The 
grammar  may  be  topsy-turvy,  the  relatives  in  admired 
disorder  ;  but  he  cares  not,  so  long  as  he  arrives  at 
some  sort  of  an  effect.  Words,  as  the  materials  of  an 
art,  have  no  fascination  for  him.  His  vocabulary,  in 
fact,  is  scanty  and  impersonal ;  his  construction  is 
as  loose  and  ill-strung  as  carelessness  can  make  it. 
Seldom  do  you  feel  the  words  in  a  sentence  held 
together  by  a  firm  and  supple  thread,  and  an  indifferent 
passage  is  apt  to  astonish  you  by  its  dignity. 

"  He  stood  like  Hamlet's  ghost,  motionless  and  speech- 
less, for  a  full  minute  and  a  half,  at  the  parlour  door 
(Obadiah  still  holding  his  hand),  with  all  the  majesty 
of  mud."  Thus  is  Dr.  Slop's  entry  described,  and, 
though  it  is  scarce  a  masterpiece,  it  is  projected  at 
once  from  the  surrounding  sobriety.  Nor  is  this  lack 
of  distinction  astonishing :  Sterne's  sentences  suffer 
from  the  prevailing  theory  of  the  book.  What  digres- 
sion is  to  a  chapter,  that  parenthesis  is  to  a  period,  and 


102  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

never,  until  you  have  accounted  for  many  an  inter- 
vening clause,  may  you  arrive  safely  at  an  expected 
conclusion.  But  if  Sterne  was  not  accomplished  in 
the  use  of  words  and  the  facture  of  sentences,  if  he 
found  grammar  a  perpetual  difficulty  and  substituted  a 
confusion  of  dashes  for  a  reasoned  punctuation,  he  had 
a  brilliant  gift  of  dramatic  presentation — one  chief 
element  of  style — and  could  set  forth  an  argument  or 
realise  a  scene  with  uncommon  vividness.  No  artist 
in  words,  he  was  still  a  master  of  the  picturesque, 
always  true  to  his  own  ideal,  that  writing  and  conver- 
sation were  one  and  the  same  art. 

His  influence  was  immediate  and  only  too  far- 
reaching.  Nor  did  this  expert  in  robbery  view  the 
sins  of  others  with  a  lenient  eye.  "  I  wish  from  my 
soul,"  said  he,  "  that  every  imitator  in  Great  Britain,. 
France,  and  Ireland  had  the  farcy  for  his  pains." 
Most  shameless  were  those  who  anticipated  by  spurious 
travesties  the  later  volumes  of  Tristram.  There  was 
John  Carr,  for  instance,  honourably  famous  for  his 
translation  of  Lucian,  who  printed  a  third  volume  in 
1 769,  and  asked  the  world  to  believe  that  it  was  from  the 
hand  of  the  master.  For  thirty  years  similar  deceits 
were  practised  with  a  similar  ineptitude.  No  sooner 
was  Yorick  dead  than  The  Posthumous  Work  of  a  Late 
Celebrated  Genius^  deceased  (1770)  astonished  the  town. 
The  parody  was  sorry  enough,  yet  it  was  presently 
reissued  with  its  title  changed  to  The  Koran^  was 
turned  into  French,  and  was  at  last  fastened  upon 
one  Richard  Griffiths,  the  son  or  husband  of  a  popular 


LAURENCE  STERNE  103 

novelist.  Then  there  were  the  endless  travels  where- 
with the  incompetent  attempted  to  steal  a  rag  of 
reputation,  such  as  Torick's  Sentimental  journey  Con^ 
tinued[i']()l).  Nor  must  the  cloud  of  pamphlets  be  for- 
gotten. As  early  as  the  May  of  1 760  there  was  published 
The  Clockmaker's  Outcry  against  the  ^Author  of  Tristram 
Shandy^  which  drew  from  Sterne  the  wish  "  that  they 
would  write  a  hundred  such,"  though  he  naturally 
resented  the  impertinence  of  those  who  attributed  to 
himself  a  scurrilous  epistle.  To  my  Cousin  Shandy  on  his 
Coming  to  Town. 

In  France,  as  in  England,  Shandeism  had  its 
followers,  and  La  ^inzaine  Jngloise  (1777),  which 
purported  to  be  a  translation  from  the  English,  is  a 
singularly  ingenuous  account  of  a  pigeon  and  his 
rook.  But  the  least  contemptible  of  a  poor  lot  is 
Gorgy,  whose  name  was  intended  for  an  anagram 
of  Yorick,  and  whose  imitation  was  open  and  avowed. 
He,  too,  kept  up  the  fiction  of  a  posthumous  work 
and  described  his  Nouveau  Voyage  Sentimental  as  "  the 
translation  of  a  few  sheets  of  manuscripts  which 
served  to  cover  some  merchandise  from  London." 
If  the  machinery  and  style  are  Sterne's,  the  dul- 
ness  is  all  the  unknown  author's  own.  Flat 
and  tepid,  it  lacks  the  point  and  humour  of  the 
original.  But  Yorick's  artifice  is  most  faithfully 
reproduced.  Here  is  the  chapter  without  a  heading  ; 
there  is  the  deferred  preface.  The  tears  shed  would 
float  a  ship,  and  while  La  Fleur  is  amplified  to 
stupidity,  a  chapter  is  added  upon  the  ways  and  habits 


104  STUDIES  IN   FRANKNESS 

of  the  grisette.  This  came  in  1785,  and  six  years  later 
were  printed  Les  Tablettes  sentiment  ales  du  bon  Pam- 
phile^  memorable  only  for  the  conversion  of  My  Uncle 
Toby  into  M.  de  Bosstacq,  who  resembles  his  original 
in  a  lame  leg  and  a  hobby  for  fortification.  Shandean 
.also  was  Jnn'quin  Bredou'ille^  a  series  of  six  tiny 
pamphlets,  half  an  imitation  of  Sterne,  half  a 
•commentary  on  the  Revolution.  It  seems  fatuous 
enough  to-day,  nor  will  the  blank  page,  "  cadre  a 
remplir  par  le  lecteur,"  and  Yorick's  other  tricks 
endear  it  to  the  reader.  "  C'est  tout  bonnement," 
writes  Gorgy,  "  un  petit  cousin  de  Tristram  Shandy, 
un  peu  allie  aux  Rabelais,  aux  Merlin  Cocaye,  aux 
Scarron,  et  pour  le  prouver  aux  incredules,  ce  sera  par 
'defunte  Jacqueline  Lycurgues,  actuellement  FifFre 
Major  au  GrefFe  des  menus  Derviches."  There  is 
naught  else  to  say  save  that  the  work  is  well-nigh 
inaccessible,  and  that  none  will  regret  its  rarity. 

A  far  better  echo  is  Jacques  le  Fataliste  (i  796),  but  even 
Jacques,  despite  his  ingenuity,  is  not  hilarious.  Not 
only  does  Diderot  honestly  confess  the  source  of  his 
inspiration  ;  he  descends  in  places  to  faithful  adapta- 
tion. The  relation  of  master  to  servant  is  freely 
borrowed  from  My  Uncle  and  the  Corporal,  while  in 
such  passages  as  the  dissertation  upon  names,  and  the 
love-making  between  Denise  and  Jacques,  Sterne  is 
almost  literally  reproduced.  In  a  less  degree  you  may 
trace  Yorick's  influence  in  that  vivacious  compost  of 
obscenity  and  adventure,  le  Compere  Matthieu  ou  les 
Bigarrures  de  r esprit  humain^  a  piece  of  fantasy  once 


LAURENCE   STERNE  105 

attributed  to  Voltaire,  but  actually  the  work  of  the 
Abbe  Dulaurens,  who  endured  a  thousand  persecu- 
tions, and  died  a  captive  in  1 797.  In  England  Yorick's 
most  conspicuous  pupil  was  Henry  Mackenzie,  whose 
Man  of  Feeling  is  a  sort  of  Shandy  stripped  of  humour, 
and  clothed  with  a  pathos  not  anticipated  in  the  most 
dolorous  page  of  The  Sentimental  ^Journey.  But  more 
remarkable  is  Sterne's  indirect  influence.  For  all  his 
dependence  upon  others,  he  added  a  new  element  to 
literature,  and  thus  once  more  appears  constant  to  the 
whim  of  contradiction.  Since  his  death,  there  has  not 
been  published  a  single  work  of  reflection  or  fancy  but 
is  subject  to  his  example.  And  if  he  be  not  as  widely 
read  as  Defoe  or  Swift,  his  style  and  theory  have  passed 
into  the  blood  and  substance  of  English  literature. 

His  life,  as  we  read  it  to-day,  bears  a  strange  likeness 
to  his  book.  It  is  diversified  by  few  incidents,  nor 
ever  disturbed  by  an  adventure.  A  journey  to  London, 
2l  trip  to  the  Continent,  a  fatally  mild  flirtation — these 
are  its  liveHest  passages.  Such  facts  as  we  know  are 
best  told  by  Sterne  himself,  for  he  is  one  of  the  few 
who  have  escaped  the  impertinence  of  casual  biography. 
If  the  few  memorials  he  left  for  his  daughter's  curiosity 
and  a  confused  collection  of  letters  are  all  that  remain 
for  the  world's  enlightenment,  they  provide  as  much 
as  the  world  has  a  right  to  know.  By  his  own 
account,  then,  Laurence  Sterne  was  born  at  Clonmel 
on  November  24,  1713  ;  the  son  of  a  gallant  officer, 
Roger  Sterne,  and  of  a  widow,  Agnes  Nuttle,  whose 
father-in-law  was  "a  noted    sutler   in    Flanders,   in 


io6  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Queen  Ann's  wars,  where  my  father  married  his- 
wife's  daughter  {N.B. — he  was  in  debt  to  him)."" 
His  early  years  were  spent  in  the  tiresome  wanderings 
demanded  by  the  Captain's  duty,  though,  to  be  sure,, 
the  family  never  lacked  the  excitements  of  births  or 
deaths.  Two  incidents  lend  a  glamour  to  his  youths 
"It  was  in  this  parish  (of  Animo),'^  thus  he  tells  the 
story,  "  during  our  stay,  that  I  had  that  wonderful 
escape  in  falling  through  a  mill-race  whilst  the  mill 
was  going,  and  of  being  taken  up  unhurt.  The  story 
is  incredible,  but  known  for  truth  in  all  that  part  of 
Ireland — where  hundreds  of  the  common  people 
flocked  to  see  me."  The  miraculous  escape  recalls  an 
experience  of  the  infant  Horace,  and  surely  Yorick 
was  not  born  to  be  drowned.  The  other  legend  is- 
less  credible,  and  still  more  wisely  prophetic.  It  is  of 
the  hero's  school-days,  and  again  his  own  words  shall 
convey  the  anecdote  :  "  The  schoolmaster  says  he  had 
had  the  ceiling  of  the  schoolroom  new  white-washed — 
the  ladder  remained  there.  I  one  unlucky  day  mounted 
it,  and  wrote  with  a  brush  in  large  capital  letters  LAU. 
STERNE,  for  which  the  usher  severely  whipped  me.. 
My  master  was  very  much  hurt  at  this,  and  said,  before 
me,  that  never  should  this  name  be  effaced,  for  I  was 
a  boy  of  genius,  and  he  was  sure  I  should  come  ta 
preferment." 

In  due  course  he  was  sent  by  his  cousin  to  the- 
University  of  Cambridge,  where  he  was  admitted 
of  Jesus  College,  July  6,  1733,  under  the  tuition  oi 
Mr.   Cannon.     As  in  duty  bound  he  sent  his  own 


LAURENCE   STERNE  107 

Tristram  to  the  same  distinguished  college,  and  to  pay 
it  a  further  honour  swore  by  St.  Rhadegunda,  the 
patron  saint  of  this  ancient  foundation.  In  1741  he 
married  Miss  Lumley,  who  secured  his  affection  by 
murmuring,  when  his  heart  was  almost  broken  :  "  My 
dear  Laurey,  I  can  never  be  yours,  for  I  verily  believe 
I  have  not  long  to  live — but  I  have  left  you  every 
shilling  of  my  fortune."  However,  the  lady  recovered 
to  spend  many  years  in  amiable  estrangement,  and  it 
was  through  her  interest  that  he  added  to  Sutton  the 
living  of  StilHngton. 

Now,  it  was  not  until  1760  that  Laurence 
Sterne  revealed  his  talent  to  the  world.  Had  he 
died  before  that  year  he  would  have  descended  to 
the  grave  in  respectable  obscurity.  Like  Fielding,, 
like  Cervantes,  like  Sir  Walter,  he  came  into  the  full 
possession  of  his  talent  at  an  age  whereat  the  most  of 
men  are  happy  in  the  contemplation  of  their  master- 
pieces. Yet  the  twenty  years  of  retirement  were  not 
fruitless,  and  when,  at  last,*  the  first  two  volumes  of 
Tristram  Shandy  were  given  to  the  world,  their  author 
was  straightway  proclaimed  a  man  of  genius,  and  his- 
visit  to  London  was  nothing  less  than  a  triumph.     He 

*  Thus  were  the  volumes  of  Tristram  published : 

Volumes  i  and  2. — York,  1759.  Printed  for  and  sold  by- 
John  Hinxham,  Bookseller  in 
Stonegate.     London,  1760. 

Volumes  3  and  4. — London,  1761.    Dodsley. 

Volumes  5  and  6. — London,  1762. -^ 

Volumes  7  and  8.— London,  1765.  j-  Becket  and  de  Hondt. 

Volume  9.  — London,  1767.  ^^ 


io8  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

fell  into  the  life  of  the  court  as  though  he  had  never 
strayed  a  mile  from  Whitehall,  and  had  scarce  an 
acquaintance  without  a  title.  His  table,  he  takes  care 
to  tell  his  friends,  was  littered  with  invitations  ;  in  fact 
he  Shandied  it  with  excellent  effect.  "  Any  man  who 
has  a  name,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "or  who  has  the  power 
of  pleasing,  will  be  very  generally  invited  in  London. 
The  man  Sterne,  I  am  told,  has  had  engagements  for 
three  months."  There  is  a  certain  scorn  in  the  utter- 
ance, though  when  Goldsmith  objected,  "And  a  very 
dull  fellow,"  Johnson  replied  with  a  generous  and 
characteristic  "  Why,  no,  sir." 

Patronised  by  the  court,  admitted  to  the  friend- 
ship of  Lord  Bathurst,  Sterne  welcomed  his  belated 
celebrity  with  enthusiasm.  The  letters  written  in 
the  early  days  of  his  triumph  are  joyous  with 
an  almost  childlike  joyousness.  He  hears  debates 
in  the  Commons  j  he  attends  the  ceremonies  of 
state  ;  and  withal  believes  himself  a  very  fine  and 
dashing  personage.  Nor  was  Yorick  sent  empty 
away.  No  sooner  were  the  two  volumes  published 
than  he  received  from  Lord  Falconbridge  the  curacy 
of  Coxwold — "a  sweet  retirement  in  comparison  of 
Sutton."  On  the  other  hand  there  were  those  who 
sneered  and  carped  at  his  success,  and  Sterne  was 
assailed  so  bitterly  with  charges  of  indecent  personality, 
that  he  was  driven  perforce  to  a  defence.  At  the  out- 
set he  explains  the  reason  of  his  authorship  :  "  Why, 

truly,"   he  writes   to  Mrs.   F ,  "I  am   tired   of 

employing  my  brains    for    other  people's   advantage. 


LAURENCE   STERNE  109 

'Tis  a  foolish  sacrifice  I  have  made  for  some  years  to 
an  ungrateful  person."     Here  is  a  protest  against  his- 
uncle,  on  behalf  of  whose  Whiggery  Sterne  had  already- 
squandered  his  gifts.     This  is  a  mere  skirmish,  and 
not  until  he  was  goaded  to  anger  by  an  impertinent 
Doctor,  did  he  attempt  to  justify  himself  in  allserious-- 
ness.     "You   will   get   a   penny   by  your   sins,  and. 
that's  enough,"  sneered  the  Doctor,  and  Sterne,  having 
honestly  owned  that  he  "  proposed  laying   the  world 
under  contribution  when  he  set  pen  to  paper,"  pro- 
ceeds to  an  analysis  of  his  motives.     He  opens  with  an- 
idle  profession  of  benevolence.     "  I  had  other  views," 
he  writes,  "  the  first  of  which  was  the  hopes  of  doing 
the  world  good,  by  ridiculing  what  I  thought  deserv- 
ing of  it."     The  occasion,  no   doubt,   condones  his 
hypocrisy,  but  his  other  statement,  that  if  the  book  "is 
writ  against  anything,  'tis  writ  against  the  spleen,"  is- 
at  once  more  honest  and  more  reasonable.     Presently 
he  discloses  his  real  purpose  in  the  oft-quoted  assertion :  - 
"  I  wrote  not  to  be  fed,  but  to  be  famous,"  and  the 
first  few  months  of  London  must  have  convinced  him 
of  success. 

But  far  more  grievous  was  the  charge  of  black- 
mail, caught  up  in  gossip  and  repeated  to  him  by 
Garrick.  Sterne,  it  was  said,  and  tacitly  acknow- 
ledged, received  a  purse  from  Warburton,  and  the 
ingenuity  of  malice  instantly  suggested  that  the  prelate- 
had  thus  bought  ofF  a  disgraceful  appearance  as  Tris- 
tram's tutor.  The  reply,  dated  "  Thursday,  1 1  o'clock 
— Night,"  is  indignant  and  conclusive.     "  'Twas  for" 


no  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

all  the  world,"  wrote  Sterne  to  Garrick,  "  like  a  cut 
across  my  finger  with  a  sharp  penknife.  I  saw  the 
blood — gave  it  a  suck — wrapt  it  up — and  thought  no 
more  about  it.  But  there  is  more  goes  to  the  healing 
of  a  wound  than  this  comes  to,"  and  Sterne  proves  the 
groundlessness  of  the  accusation  with  dignity  and 
-emotion,  though  not  without  a  touch  of  Yorick's 
sentimentality.  Surely,  with  the  world  at  logger- 
heads over  his  masterpiece,  the  victim  might  have 
been  spared  this  added  infamy  ?  Still,  he  lived  to  be 
described  by  Warburton  as  an  "  irrevocable  scoundrel," 
and  for  a  man  of  sensibility,  he  was  strangely  insensi- 
tive to  assaults  made  upon  his  virtue. 

The  opening  of  Tristram  Shandy  was  followed  by  the 
appearance  of  Yorick's  Sermons^  and  from  the  first  Sterne 
regarded  his  novel  as  a  spring-board  from  which  his 
spiritual  counsel  might  take  a  higher  leap.  Published  by 
a  country  rector,  the  sermons  would  have  had  no  suc- 
cess :  as  the  compositions  of  the  amiable  Yorick  they 
claimed  an  eager  and  an  immediate  attention.  None 
was  so  keenly  conscious  of  this  profitable  curiosity  as 
their  author.  The  third  and  fourth  volumes,  he 
assured  Mr.  Foley,  would  bring  him  a  handsome  sum. 
"Almost  all  the  nobility  of  England  honour  me  with 
their  names,"  he  added,  "  and  'tis  thought  it  will  be 
the  largest  and  most  splendid  list  which  ever  pranced 
before  a  book,  since  subscriptions  came  into  fashion." 
Thus  he  prospered,  always  buoyant  and  always  in 
xliificulties.  In  1762  he  made  his  journey  in  France, 
and  two  years  later  wandered  through  Italy  in  search 


LAURENCE   STERNE  iii 

of  health.  The  appearance  and  reception  of  his  books 
furnished  the  one  reasonable  excitement  of  his  life, 
until  in  1768  there  was  published  The  Sentimental 
Journey,  in  some  respects  his  most  characteristic  and 
most  finished  performance. 

If  his  life  resembled  his  book  in  its  paucity  of 
incident,  the  resemblance  of  sentiment  is  remarkable 
also.  Both  in  its  whimsicality  and  its  pathos,  Tristram 
Shandy  is  largely  autobiographical.  Sterne  was  reso- 
lute in  the  cultivation  of  incongruous  experience.  A 
country  clergyman,  he  entertained  a  very  poor  regard 
for  his  profession.  Continually  he  complains  of  the 
duties  laid  upon  him  by  the  Church,  and  if  he  delights 
in  subscription-lists,  he  has  a  poor  opinion  of  sermon- 
making.  "  'Tis  my  vile  errantry,  as  Sancho  says,  and 
that  is  all  that  can  be  made  of  it."  Yet  his  sermons 
are  but  essays  in  worldliness,  and  suggest  the  pulpit 
only  in  their  framework.  Even  in  the  pulpit  he 
<:ould  not  resist  a  pleasantry,  and  one  wonders  what 
thought  the  congregation  of  the  Ambassador's  Chapel 
in  Paris,  when  he  chose  Hezekiah  and  the  Messengers 
for  the  subject  of  his  discourse.  But  his  masterpiece 
is  the  discourse  on  the  Prodigal  Son,  which  contains  an 
exquisitely  Shandean  paraphrase  of  the  ancient  legend. 
The  Prodigal,  declares  the  preacher,  "was  cheated  at 
Damascus  by  one  of  the  best  men  in  the  world  ;  .  .  . 
a  whore  of  Babylon  swallowed  his  best  pearl  and 
anointed  the  whole  city  with  his  Balmof  Gilead  ;  .  .  . 
the  apes  and  peacocks  which  he  had  sent  for  from 
Tharsis  lay  dead  upon  his  hands  ;  the  mummies  had 


112  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

not  been  dead  long  enough,  which  had  been  brought 
him  out  of  Egypt."  Doubtless  the  village  audience 
listened  in  bewilderment,  and  Sterne  was  the  more 
encouraged  to  fresh  experiments  upon  the  stolidity  of 
his  flock. 

Again,  the  sentiment  of  his  life  is  no  more  real  than  the 
sentiment  of  his  book ;  yet  he  was  for  ever  shedding  tears 
over  the  unattainable.  If  it  was  not  Kitty  it  was  Eliza, 
but  whatever  the  name,  there  was  the  same  excuse  for 
pathos  and  nobility  of  soul.  Thackeray,  after  his  own 
fashion,  scolded  Sterne  as  an  usher  might  scold  a 
naughty  schoolboy,  soundly  rating  him  for  his  errors,* 
but  the  condemnation  is  wholly  lacking  in  humour, 
since  Sterne  was  ever  an  inveterate  philanderer,  who 
felt  as  lightly  as  he  expected  others  to  feel.  His 
sympathy  for  Eliza  is  as  genuine  as  his  sympathy 
for  the  dead  ass.  In  not  one  of  the  letters  is  there 
a  line  of  i  passion,  and  the  lady's  departure  left  him 
imperturbed.  Nor  can  you  believe,  without  imperti- 
nence, that  her  own  eyes  were  dim  with  tears.  "  Were 
your  husband  in  England,"  wrote  Sterne  in  what  were 
supposed  the  throes  of  an  illicit  love,  "  I  would  freely 
give  him  five  hundred  pounds  to  let  you  sit  by  me 
two   hours    a    day."     And    why    this    generous,    this 


*  The  climax  of  impertinent  reproof  is  reached  by  the  American 
Allibone,  who  thus  sums  up  Sterne's  villainy :  "  A  standing  re- 
proach to  the  profession  which  he  disgraced,  grovelling  in  his 
tastes,  indiscreet,  if  not  licentious  in  his  habits,  he  lived  un- 
honoured,  and  died  unlamented,  save  by  those  who  found 
amusement  in  his  wit  or  countenance  in  his  immorality !  " 


LAURENCE   STERNE  113 

impassioned  offer  ?  Because  he  is  sure  that  The 
Sentimental  ^Journey  ''would  sell  so  much  the  better 
for  it,  that  I  should  be  reimbursed  the  sum  more  than 
seven  times  told."  Is  that  the  voice  of  guilty  senti- 
ment, which  shocked  the  scruples  of  Mr.  Thackeray  ? 
Is  it  possible  that  a  critic  with  a  sense  of  humour 
should  grudge  this  elderly  clergyman  his  diversion  ? 
True,  if  another  had  suggested  that  when  Eliza's 
husband  and  his  own  wife  were  overtaken  by  death, 
a  happier  marriage  might  be  made,  censure  would 
not  have  been  unreasonable.  But  you  need  not  give 
a  malicious  interpretation  to  a  proposal,  whose  very 
extravagance  commended  itself  to  Sterne. 

Thus  he  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  false  and  pleasing 
sentiment.  And  when  death  came  upon  him  (in  March 
1768),  it  found  him  where  he  professed  a  hope  to 
die — at  a  lodging.  His  thievery  pursued  him,  even 
to  his  deathbed,  since  the  prayer  that  he  might  breathe 
his  last  at  an  inn  was  stolen  from  Bishop  Burnet. 
Truly  no  man  of  feeling  ever  so  fantastically  borrowed 
his  sentiments  !  Dying  in  poverty,  he  was  robbed  of 
his  sleeve  links  that  the  undertaker  might  be  satisfied, 
and  there  is  a  dark  and  incredible  story  told  on  the 
authority  of  Malone,  that,  after  his  body  had  been  laid 
in  the  burial-ground  belonging  to  St.  George's,  Han- 
over Square,  it  was  snatched  and  carried  to  Cambridge 
for  dissection. 

Still  more  strange  is  the  circumstance  of  his  tomb- 
stone. When  Yorick  died,  Eugenius  laid  a  marble 
slab  upon  his  grave,  "  with  no  more  than  these  three 

H 


114  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

words   of  inscription,  serving    both    for   epitaph  and 
elegy : 


ALAS.  POOR  YORICK! 


Yorick's  creator  was  not  thus  fortunate.  No  stone 
marked  the  place,  and  when  at  last  a  monument  was 
set  up,  they  were  strangers  who  paid  the  tardy  homage. 
Their  own  excuse  might  have  been  invented  by  their 
idol.  They  proclaim  themselves  "brother  masons," 
asserting  that  Sterne,  "although  he  did  not  live  to 
be  a  member  of  their  society,"  always  "  acted  by  rule 
and  square ; "  wherefore  they  "  rejoice  in  this  oppor- 
tunity of  perpetuating  his  high  and  irreproachable 
character  to  after  ages."  With  that  purpose,  they 
inscribed  upon  the  stone  a  dozen  ill-made  verses, 
and  misled  the  "after  ages"  not  only  as  to  their 
"  brother's  "  age,  but  as  to  the  date  of  their  "  brother's  " 
death.  And  the  pious  admirer  does  not  complain  :  he 
merely  reflects  how  gaily  Sterne,  that  master  of  the 
incongruous,  smiles  in  the  Shades  at  this  final  triumph 
of  incongruity. 


APULEIUS 


APULEIUS* 


**  T^HE  Golden  Ass"  of  Apuleius  is,  so  to  say,  a 
1  beginning'  of  modern  literature.  From  this 
brilliant  medley  of  reality  and  romance,  of  wit  and 
pathos,  of  fantasy  and  observation,  was  born  that  new 
art,  complex  in  thought,  various  in  expression,  which 
gives  a  semblance  of  frigidity  to  perfection  itself.  An 
indefatigable  youthfulness  is  its  distinction.  As  it  was 
fresh  when  Adlington  translated  it  ''  out  of  Latine " 
three  centuries  since,  so  it  is  familiar  to-day,  and  is 
like  to  prove  an  influence  to-morrow.  Indeed,  it  is 
among  the  marvels  of  history  that  an  alien  of  twenty- 
five — and  Apuleius  was  no  more  when  he  wrote  his 
Metamorphoses — should  have  revolutionised  a  lan- 
guage not  his  own,  and  bequeathed  us  a  freedom 
which,  a  thousand  times  abused,  has  never  since  been 
taken  away. 

*  "  The  XI  Bookes  of  The  Golden  Asse,  containing  the  Meta- 
morphosie  of  Lucius  Apuleius,  interlaced  with  sundry  pleasant 
and  delectable  Tales:  with  an  excellent  Narration  of  the 
Marriage  of  Cupid  and  Pysches,  translated  out  of  Latine  into 
English,  by  William  Adlington.     1566, 


ii8  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

A  barbarian  born,  a  Greek  by  education,  Apuleius 
only  acquired  the  Latin  tongue  by  painful  effort. 
Now  a  foreigner,  not  prejudiced  by  an  inveterate 
habit  of  speech,  seldom  escapes  a  curiosity  of  phrase. 
Where  the  language  is  the  same,  whether  written  or 
spoken,  art  is  wont  to  lapse  into  nature.  But  there 
was  no  reason  why  Apuleius,  who  could  not  but  be 
conscious  of  his  diction,  should  ever  deviate  from 
artifice.  His  style,  in  truth,  he  put  on  as  a  garment, 
and  it  fitted  the  matter  without  a  crease.  His  exotic 
vocabulary  was  the  fruit  of  the  widest  research.  He 
ransacked  the  ancient  plays  for  long-forgotten  words. 
He  cared  not  where  he  picked  up  his  neologisms,  so 
they  were  dazzling  and  bizarre.  Greece,  his  own 
Carthage,  the  byways  of  Rome,  contribute  to  the 
wealth  of  his  diction,  for  he  knew  naught  of  that 
pedantry  which  would  cramp  expression  for  authority's 
sake.  The  literary  use  of  slang  was  almost  his  own 
invention.  He  would  twist  the  vulgar  words  of  every 
day  into  quaint,  unheard-of  meanings,  nor  did  he  ever 
deny  shelter  to  those  loafers  and  footpads  of  speech 
which  inspire  the  grammarian  with  horror.  On  every 
page  you  encounter  a  proverb,  a  catchword,  a  literary 
allusion,  a  flagrant  redundancy.  One  quality  only  was 
distasteful  to  him  :  the  commonplace.  He  is  ever  the 
literary  fop,  conscious  of  his  trappings  and  assured  of  a 
handsome  effect. 

In  brief,  he  belonged  to  the  African  School,  for 
which  elaboration  was  the  first  and  last  law  of 
taste.     He  may  even  have  been  a  pupil  of  Fronto, 


APULEIUS  119 

the  prime  champion  of  the  "  elocutio  novella",  the 
rhetorician  who  condemned  Cicero  in  that  he  was  not 
scrupulous  in  his  search  for  effect,  and  urged  upon  his 
pupils  the  use  of  "insperata  atque  inopinata  verba." 
No  wonder  poor  Adlington,  whose  equipment  of  Latin 
was  of  the  lightest,  hesitated  for  a  while  !  No  wonder 
that  he  complained  that  "  the  Author  had  written  his 
work  in  so  darke  and  high  a  stile,  in  so  strange  and 
absurd  words,  and  in  such  new  invented  phrases  as  hee 
seemed  rather  to  set  it  forth  to  shew  his  magnificencie 
of  prose  than  to  participate  his  doings  to  others  ! " 
But  the  difficulty  is  not  invincible  ;  and  the  adven- 
turous have  their  reward.  The  prose  sparkles  with 
light  and  colour.  Not  a  page  but  is  rich  inlaid  with 
jewels  of  fantastic  speech.  For  Apuleius  realised  cen- 
turies before  Baudelaire  that  a  vocabulary  is  a  palette, 
and  he  employed  his  own  with  incomparable  daring 
and  extravagance. 

Though  his  style  be  personal,  the  machinery  of  his 
story  is  frankly  borrowed.  The  hero  who,  trans- 
formed by  magic  to  an  ass,  recovers  human  shape  by 
eating  roses  was  no  new  invention.  He  had  already 
supplied  two  writers  with  a  motive  ;  and  the  learned 
have  not  decided  whether  it  was  from  Lucian  (so- 
called)  or  from  Lucius  of  Patrae  that  Apuleius  got  his 
inspiration.*     But  a  comparison  of  the  Latin  version 

*  That  the  hero  transformed  to  an  ass  was  the  motive  of  two 
Greek  romances  can  hardly  be  doubted  after  Photius'  statement. 
The  one,  he  says,  was  the  work  of  Lucius  of  Patrae  (who  wrote 
/x€Ta/top0c&<rewi'  X67oi's  dia<p6povi),  the  other  the  work  of  Lucian. 


120  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

with  its  Greek  forerunner,  commonly  attributed  to 
Lucian,  proves  the  debt  a  feather's  weight.  Whatever 
Apuleius  conveyed,  he  so  boldly  changed  and  elaborated 
as  to  make  the  material  his  own.  His  method  is  a 
miracle  of  simplicity.  He  accepts  the  Aovkioq  ri  *'Ovog 
as  a  framework,  sometimes  following  it  word  for  word, 
yet  decorating  it  with  so  lavish  an  array  of  phrases,  trick- 
ing it  out  with  episodes  so  fertile  and  ingenious,  as  to 
force  you  to  forget  the  original  in  the  copy.  Only  in 
a  single  incident  does  his  fancy  lag  behind.  His 
hero's  interview  with  the  serving-maid  is  chastened 
and  curtailed.  The  professionally  elaborate  detail, 
wherewith  Lucian  enhances  this  famous  episode,  is 
touched  by  Apuleius  with  a  light  and  summary  hand. 
But  elsewhere  he  appropriates  to  adorn.  Though 
again  and  again  the  transference  is  verbal,  the  added 
ornament  is  entirely  characteristic,  and  it  is  as  unjust 
to  charge  the  author   with  plagiarism  as  it  were  to 


The  Aoi5/ctos  ij  "Ovos,  preserved  in  the  works  of  Lucian,  is  doubtless 
one  of  the  romances  known  to  Photius.  But  its  style  and  im- 
partiality never  for  an  instant  suggest  Lucian,  who  would  have 
made  the  Metamorphosis  a  peg  for  satire.  And  modern  scholars 
are  for  the  most  part  agreed  that  Lucian  was  not  the  author. 
Other  considerations  prevent  our  assigning  it  to  Lucius,  who,  it 
is  said,  ran  to  a  greater  length,  while  it  would  be  difficult  to  set 
forth  the  story  in  briefer  terms  than  are  employed  by  the  author 
of  Aoi/Ktos  7j  "Ovos.  Probably  it  is  the  work  of  neither,  though  it 
may  well  be  the  romance  attributed  to  Lucius  by  Photius.  The 
only  sure  fact  is  that  in  the  AoiJ/ctos  ij  "Ovos  are  to  be  found  the 
dry  bones  of  The  Golden  Ass.  The  curious  may  consult  Professor 
Rohde's  Ueber  Lucian' s  Schri/t  Aoijkios  i}  "Ovos  und  ihr  Verhaeltniss 
zu  Lucius  von  Patrae  und  den  Metamorphosen  des  Apuleius. 


APULEIUS  121 

condemn  the  Greek  tragedians  for  their  treatment  of 
familiar  themes. 

Indeed,  the  two  writers  approach  the  matter  from 
opposite  points  of  view.  Lucian's  austere  con- 
cision is  purely  classical.  He  has  a  certain  story  to 
present,  and  he  reaches  the  climax  by  the  shortest 
possible  route.  The  progress  is  interrupted  neither  by 
phrase  nor  interlude,  and  at  the  end  you  chiefly 
admire  the  cold  elegance  wherewith  the  misfortunes  of 
Lucius  are  expressed,  as  it  were,  in  their  lowest  terms. 
Apuleius,  on  the  other  hand,  is  unrestrainedly  romantic. 
He  cares  not  how  he  loiters  by  the  way  ;  he  is  always 
ready  to  beguile  his  reader  with  a  Milesian  story — one 
of  those  quaint  and  witty  interludes  which  have 
travelled  the  world  over,  and  become  part,  not  merely 
of  every  literature,  but  of  every  life.  Our  new  fashion 
of  analysis,  our  ineradicable  modesty,  have  at  last  denied 
them  literary  expression,  and  to-day  they  eke  out  a 
beggarly  and  formless  existence  by  the  aid  of  oral 
tradition.  But  time  was  they  were  respectable  as  well 
as  joyous.  What  reproach  is  attached  to  the  widow 
of  Ephesus,  who  has  wandered  from  Petronius  even 
unto  Rabelais  ?  To  what  admirable  purpose  is  the 
Sermo  Milesius  handled  in  the  Decamerone  to  which 
Apuleius  himself  contributed  one  delectable  tale  ! 
Did  not  the  genius  of  Balzac  devise  a  monument 
proper  to  its  honourable  antiquity  in  the  Contes 
Drolatiques?  And  yet  the  second  century  was  its 
golden  age,  and  none  so  generously  enhanced  its 
repute  as  Apuleius. 


122  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

His  masterpiece,  in  truth,  is  magnificently  inter- 
laced with  jests,  sometimes  bound  to  the  purpose 
of  the  story  by  the  thinnest  of  thin  threads, 
more  often  attached  merely  for  their  own  or  for 
ornament's  sake.  But  not  only  thus  is  he  separate 
from  his  model.  Though  he  is  romantic  in  style  and 
temper  alike — and  romanticism  is  an  affair  of  treat- 
ment rather  than  of  material — he  never  loses  touch 
with  actuality.  He  wrote  with  an  eye  upon  the 
realities  of  life.  Observation  was  a  force  more  potent 
with  him  than  tradition.  If  his  personages  and  in- 
cidents are  wholly  imaginary,  he  could  still  give  them 
a  living  semblance  by  a  touch  of  intimacy  or  a  sugges- 
tion of  familiar  detail.  Compare  his  characters  to 
Lucian's,  and  measure  the  gulf  between  the  two  ! 
Lucian's  Abroea  is  a  warning  voice — that,  and  no 
more.  Byrrhena,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  great  lady, 
sketched,  with  a  quick  perception  of  her  kind,  cen- 
turies before  literature  concerned  itself  with  the  indivi- 
dual. And  is  not  Milo  the  miser  leagues  nearer  the 
possibility  of  life  than  Hipparchus  ?  Even  Palaestra, 
despite  the  ingenuity  of  one  episode,  is  not  for  an 
instant  comparable  in  charm  and  humour  to  Fotis, 
most  complaisant  of  serving-maids. 

Nor  is  it  only  in  the  portrayal  of  character  that 
Apuleius  proves  his  observation.  There  are  many  scenes 
whose  truthful  simplicity  is  evidence  of  experience. 
When  Lucius,  arrived  in  Hypata,  goes  to  the  market  to 
buy  him  fish,  he  encounters  an  old  fellow  student — 
Pythias  by  name— ^ready  invested  with  the  authority 


APULEIUS  123 

and  insignia  of  an  aedile.  Now  he,  being  a  veritable 
jack-in-oifice,  is  enraged  that  Lucius  has  made  so  ill  a 
bargain,  and  overturning  his  fish,  bids  his  attendants 
stamp  it  under  foot,  so  that  the  traveller  loses  supper 
and  money  too.  The  incident  is  neither  apposite  nor 
romantic  ;  it  is  no  more  Milesian  than  mystical ;  but  it 
bears  the  very  pressure  of  life,  and  you  feel  that  it  was 
transferred  straight  from  a  note-book.  Again,  where 
will  you  find  a  franker  piece  of  realism  than  the  picture 
of  the  mill,  whereto  the  luckless  Ass  was  bound  ?  Very 
ugly  and  evil-favoured  were  the  men,  covered  only 
with  ragged  clouts ;  and  how  horrible  a  spectacle  the 
horses,  with  their  raw  necks,  their  hollow  flanks,  their 
broken  ribs  ! 

The  Greek  author,  disdaining  atmosphere,  is  con- 
tent to  set  out  his  incidents  in  a  logical  sequence. 
Apuleius  has  enveloped  his  world  of  marvels  in  a 
heavy  air  of  witchery  and  romance.  You  wander 
with  Lucius  across  the  hills  and  through  the  dales  of 
Thessaly.  With  all  the  delight  of  a  fresh  curiosity 
you  approach  its  far-seen  towns.  You  journey  at 
midnight  under  the  stars,  listening  in  terror  for  the 
howling  of  the  wolves  or  the  stealthy  ambush.  At 
other  whiles,  you  sit  in  robbers'  cave  and  hear  the 
ancient  legends  of  Greece  retold.  The  spring  comes 
on  and  "  the  little  birds  chirp  and  sing  their  Steven 
melodiously."  Secret  raids,  ravished  brides,  valiant 
rescues,  the  gayest  of  intrigues — these  are  the  diverse 
matters  of  this  many-coloured  book.  The  play  of 
fancy,  the  variety  of  style,  the  fertility  of  resource  are 


124  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

inexhaustible.  Mythology  is  lifted  into  life,  and  life 
itself  transformed  to  mystery  at  the  wizard's  touch. 
The  misery  and  terror  of  the  Ass's  life  are  intercepted 
by  the  story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  set  forth  with  rare 
beauty  and  distinction  of  style.  And  yet  this  inter- 
lude, exquisitely  planned  and  phrased,  which  suggested 
a  worthless  play  *  to  Tom  Hey  wood,  and  has  been  an 
inspiration  to  many  poets,  from  Mrs.  Tighe  to  Mr. 
Bridges,  is  the  one  conspicuous  fault  of  the  book. 
Admirable  in  itself,  it  is  out  of  proportion  as  well  as 
out  of  key  ;  though  you  turn  to  it  again  for  its  own 
sake,  you  skip  it  industriously  when  it  keeps  you  from 
robbery  and  witchcraft. 

But  the  most  remarkable  characteristic  of  The  Golden 
Ass  is  the  ever-present  element  of  sorcery,  of  the 
Macabre^  as  Mr.  Pater  calls  it.  Grim  spectres  and  horrid 
ghosts  stalk  through  its  pages.  The  merriest  Milesian 
jest  turns  sudden  to  the  terror  of  death  and  corruption. 
The  very  story  which  Boccaccio  borrowed  is  shifted  by 
Apuleius  to  a  weird  conclusion.  The  baker,  having 
most  wittily  avenged  his  wife's  deceit,  is  lured  into  a 
chamber  by  a  meagre,  ragged,  ill-favoured  woman,  her 
hair  scattering  upon  her  face,  and  when  the  servants 
burst  open  the  door  to  find  their  master,  behold  !  no 
woman,  but  only  the  baker  hanging  from  a  rafter 
dead  !     And  where  for  pure  horror  will  you  match 

*  Loves  Maistrese  :  or  the  Queen's  Masque.  As  it  was  three 
times  presented  before  their  two  Excellent  Majesties,  within 
the  space  of  eight  dayes.  In  the  presence  of  sundry  foraigne 
Ambassadors.    1636. 


APULEIUS  125 

Meroe's  mutilation  of  Socrates  ?  Secretly  the  witch 
attacks  him  in  his  sleep,  drives  her  sword  deep  into  his 
neck,  and  dragging  out  his  heart  stops  the  wound  with 
a  sponge.  Aristomenes,  unwilling  witness  of  the 
cruelty,  half  believes  it  a  dream,  and  gladly  they 
resume  the  journey,  until,  when  Socrates  goes  to  the 
river  to  drink,  the  sponge  falls  out  and  with  it  the  last 
faint  pulse  of  life.  Again,  when  Thelyphron  watches 
in  the  chamber  of  the  dead  lest  witches  should  bite  ofF 
morsels  of  the  dead  man's  face,  and  falling  asleep  at 
sight  of  a  weasel,  loses  his  ears  and  nose,  who  so 
callous  as  to  feel  no  shudder  of  alarm  ?  But  the  most 
terrific  apparition  of  all  is  the  obscene  priest  of  the 
Syrian  goddess,  with  his  filthy  companions,  carrying 
the  divine  image  from  village  to  village  and  clanging 
their  cymbals  to  call  the  charitable.  This  grimy 
episode,  with  its  sequent  orgies,  is  related  with  an 
incomparably  full  humour  which,  despite  its  Oriental 
barbarity,  i»  unmatched  in  literature. 

So  there  is  scarce  a  scene  without  its  ghostly  enchant- 
ment, its  supernatural  intervention.  And  herein  you 
may  detect  the  personal  predilection  of  Apuleius.  The 
infinite  curiosity  wherewith  Lucius  pries  into  witch- 
craft and  sorcery  was  shared  by  his  author.  The 
hero  transformed  suffered  his  many  and  grievous  bufFet- 
ings  because  he  always  coveted  an  understanding  of 
wizardry  and  spells  ;  and  Apuleius,  in  an  age  devoted 
to  mysticism,  was  notorious  for  a  magic-monger. 
Seriously  it  was  debated,  teste  St.  Augustine,  whether 
Christ   or    he   or   ApoUonius   wrought    the   greatest 


126  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

marvels  ;  and  though  the  shape  wherein  the  romance 
is  cast  induced  a  confusion  of  author  and  hero,  it  is 
recorded  that  Apuleius  was  a  zealous  magician,  and 
doubtless  it  is  himself,  not  Lucius,  he  pictures  in  his 
last  book  among  the  initiate.  In  the  admirable 
description  of  Isis  and  her  visitation,  as  of  the 
ceremonies  wherein  he  was  admitted  to  the  secret 
worship  of  the  goddess,  he  departs  entirely  from  his 
Greek  original.  Here,  indeed,  we  have  a  fragment  of 
autobiography.  When  in  158  a.d.,  at  the  dramatic 
moment  of  an  adventurous  career,  Apuleius  delivered 
his  Apology — pro  se  de  magia — before  Claudius 
Maximus,  he  confessed  that  he  had  been  initiated  into 
all  the  sacred  rites  of  Greece  and  had  squandered  the 
better  part  of  a  comfortable  fortune  in  mysticism  and 
the  grand  tour. 

The  main  accusation  was  that  he  had  won  his 
wife — a  respectable  and  wealthy  widow — by  magic 
arts.  He  was  also  charged  with  other  acts  of  witch- 
craft and  enchantment.  Thattus,  it  was  said,  and 
a  free-born  woman  had  swooned  in  his  presence, 
a  piece  of  superstition  which  reminds  you  of  Cotton 
Mather.  But,  replied  Apuleius,  with  excellent  humour 
and  scepticism  worthy  of  Reginald  Scot,  they  were 
epileptics,  who  could  stand  in  the  presence  of  none 
save  a  magician.  In  brief,  we  cannot  appreciate  The 
Golden  Ass^  until  we  realise  the  modern  spirit  of 
curiosity  which  possessed  its  author.  The  lecturer's 
fame  well-nigh  outran  the  writer's.  Apuleius  travelled 
the  length  of  civilised  Africa  with  his  orations,  as  the 


APULEIUS  127 

popular  lecturer  of  to-day  invades  America  ;  and  the 
majesty  of  ^Esculapius,  a  favourite  subject,  vtras  an 
excellent  occasion  for  his  familiar  mysticism.  He  had 
been  as  intimately  at  home  in  the  nineteenth  century 
as  in  the  second.  Were  he  alive  to-day,  Paris  w^ould 
have  been  his  field,  and  he  the  undisputed  master  of 
Decadence  and  Symbolism.  The  comparison  is  close 
at  all  points.  Would  he  not  have  delighted  in  the 
Black  Mass,  as  celebrated  on  the  heights  of  Mont 
Parnasse  ?  Like  many  among  the  makers  of  modern 
French  literature  he  w^as  an  alien  w^riting  an  alien 
tongue.  His  curiosity  of  diction,  his  unfailing 
loyalty  to  speech,  his  eager  search  after  the  strange 
and  living  vv^ord,  his  love  for  an  art  which  knows  no 
concealment — these  qualities  proclaim  the  Decadent. 
And  that  Symbolist  is  wayward  indeed  who  finds  not 
matter  for  his  fancy  in  the  countless  stories  which  a 
perverse  ingenuity  has  twisted  a  hundred  times  into 
allegory. 

Such  the  author  and  his  book.  And  when  William 
Adlington,  in  the  untried  youth  of  English  prose,  under- 
took the  translation  of  The  Golden  Asse^  you  would  have 
thought  no  apter  enterprise  possible.  Primitive  and 
Decadent  approach  art  in  the  same  temper.  Each  is 
of  necessity  inclined  to  Euphuism  and  experiment. 
In  the  sixteenth  century  the  slang,  the  proverb,  the 
gutter  phrase,  which  Apuleius  brought  back  to  the 
Latin  tongue,  were  not  yet  sifted  from  English  by  the 
pedantry  of  scholars.  But  William  Adlington,  though 
an  Elizabethan,  was  something  of  a  purist.     To  be 


128  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

sure  he  was  unable  to  purge  his  diction  of  colour  and 
variety,  and  his  manner  was  far  better  suited  to  the 
rendering  of  Apuleius  than  the  prose  of  to-day,  which 
has  passed  through  the  sieve  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
But  with  an  excellent  modesty  he  pleads  acceptance 
for  his  "  simple  translation."  Though  he  applauds 
the  ''  franke  and  flourishing  stile  "  of  his  author,  "  as 
he  seems  to  have  the  Muses  at  his  will  to  feed  and 
maintaine  his  pen,"  he  uses  of  deliberation  "  more 
common  and  familiar  words  " — the  phrase  proves  the 
essential  recognition  of  his  own  style — "  fearing  lest 
the  book  should  appear  very  obscure  and  darke,  and 
thereby  consequently  loathsome  to  the  reader."  Indeed 
he  elected  to  translate  the  one  book  of  the  world  which 
demanded  the  free  employment  of  strange  terms,  and 
set  himself  incontinent  to  avoid  slang  and  to  simplify 
redundancies.  And  his  restraint  is  the  more  unex- 
pected when  you  recall  the  habit  of  contemporary 
translators.  Barnaby  Rich  studded  Herodotus  thick 
with  colloquialisms  and  fresh-minted  words.  Philemon 
Holland  made  no  attempt  to  chasten  his  vocabulary. 
But  Adlington,  his  opportunity  being  the  higher,  fell 
the  more  marvellously  below  it. 

For  the  most  part,  then,  you  will  ransack  his  version 
in  vain  for  obsolete  words  or  exotic  flowers  of  speech. 
And  yet  not  even  his  love  of  simplicity  has  kept  his 
vocabulary  entirely  pure.  Again  and  again  a  coined 
phrase,  a  strange  form  gleams  upon  his  page  like  a  dash 
of  scarlet.  "  The  rope-ripe  boy  "  thus  he  renders  "  puer 
ille  peremptor  meus"  by  a  happy  inspiration,  which 


APULEIUS  129 

Apuleius  himself  might  envy.  Fresh  and  unhack- 
neyed is  "the  gleed  of  the  sun"  for  "jubaris  orbe." 
How  exquisitely  does  "  a  swathell  of  red  silke  "  repre- 
sent "  russea  fasceola  "  :  "  traiFe  or  baggage  "  is  more 
pleasantly  picturesque  than  "sarcinam  vel  laciniam," 
and  one's  heart  rejoices  to  hear  a  churl  styled  "  a  rich 
chufFe."  Again,  "  ungles "  is  far  more  expressive  if 
less  common  than  "  claws "  ;  and  who  would  write 
"  niggardly "  when  "  niggish "  is  ready  to  his  hand  ? 
And  is  not  "a  carraine  stinke"  a  high-sounding 
version  of  "  fetore  nimio  "  ?  To  encounter  so  sturdy 
and  wholesome  a  phrase  as  "  I  smelling  his  crafty  and 
subtil  fetch  " — though  it  be  a  poor  echo  of  "  ego 
perspiciens  malum  istum  verberonem  blaterantem  et 
inconcinne  causificantem  " — is  to  regret  the  impover- 
ishment of  our  English  tongue.  But  not  often  are 
you  rejoiced  by  the  unexpected,  and  for  the  most  part 
Adlington  is  a  scrupulous  critic  of  his  diction. 

As  he  makes  no  attempt  to  represent  in  English  his 
author's  vocabulary,  so  is  he  wont  to  shirk  the  imagery 
and  curtail  the  redundancy  affected  by  Apuleius, 
repressing  the  hyperbolical  ostentations  of  his  original, 
save  only  when  he  indulges  in  extravagances  of  his 
own.  When  the  miserable  Thelyphron  is  protecting 
a  dead  man  from  the  witch  woman  thus  does  Apuleius, 
with  his  admirable  sense  of  words,  enhance  the  horror 
of  crawling  minutes  :  "  cum  ecce  crepusculum  et  nox 
provecta  et  nox  altior  et  dein  concubia  altiora  ;  et 
jam  nox  intempesta  "  for  which  Adlington  writes  in  all 
brevity   "midnight."      Apuleius   again   has   a   dozen 

I 


130  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

fantastical  notions  of  the  dawn,  and  Adlington  cuts 
them  all  down  to  the  colourless  level  of  "when 
morning  was  come."  Thus  even  does  he  reduce  so 
garishly  purple  a  piece  of  imagery  as,  "commodum 
punicantibus  phaleris  Aurora  roseum  quatiens  lacertum 
coelum  inequitabat."  When  the  thieves  return  to  their 
den  after  the  sack  of  Milo's  house,  and  sit  them  down 
to  revelry,  Apuleius  surpasses  even  his  own  habit 
of  opulent  description.  "Estur  ac  potatur,"  thus 
he  writes,  "incondite  pulmentis  acervatim,  panibus 
aggeratim,  poculis  agminatim  ingestis."  "Cups  in 
battalions ! "  'Tis  a  pretty  conceit,  and  for  Adlington  it 
means  no  more  than  "  they  drank  and  eat  exceedingly." 

But  having  accustomed  you  to  a  chaste  severity  of 
language,  he  will  break  out  suddenly  into  a  decorative 
passage,  for  which  the  Latin  gives  no  warrant. 
"Moreover  there  be  divers  that  will  cast  off  their 
partlets,  collars,  habiliments,  fronts,  cornets  and 
krippins  "  ;  thus  he  turns  a  perfectly  simple  sentence — 
*'  lacinias  omnes  exuunt,  amicula  di movent " — proving 
his  quietude  of  phrase  the  effect  of  design  rather  than  of 
necessity.  So  also  he  is  wont  to  clip  and  crop  his 
author's  metaphors.  "  While  I  considered  these 
things"  is  a  withered,  nerveless  rendering  of  "cum 
isto  cogitationis  salo  fluctuarem "  ;  yet  is  it  entirely 
characteristic  of  his  method.  Indeed,  from  beginning 
to  end  he  treats  his  author  with  the  freest  hand,  and 
never  permits  the  form  and  colour  of  the  Latin  to 
interrupt  his  conception  of  English  prose. 

But  if  he  sacrificed  something  by  too  scrupulous  a 


APULEIUS  131 

restraint,  he  sacrificed  still  more  by  his  scanty  know- 
ledge of  Latin.  Scholarship  was  as  little  fashionable 
in  Tudor  England  as  pedantry,  the  defect  correspond- 
ing to'  its  quality ;  and  Adlington  laid  no  claim  to 
profound  erudition.  He  did  but  purpose,  "  according 
to  his  slender  knowledge  (though  it  were  rudely,  and 
farre  disagreeing  from  the  fine  and  excellent  doings 
nowadayes),"  to  translate  "the  delectable  j easts  of 
Lucius  Apuleius  into  our  vulgar  tongue."  Nor  is  the 
confession  of  "  slender  knowledge  "  a  mere  parade  of 
modesty :  it  is  wholly  justified  by  the  event.  To 
compile  a  list  of  errors  were  superfluous.  In  truth, 
there  is  no  page  without  its  blunder,  though,  as  we 
shall  presently  see,  the  translator  commonly  manages 
to  tumble  not  only  into  sense  but  into  distinction. 
Now  and  again  the  mistakes  are  so  serious  as  to  per- 
vert the  meaning,  and  then  one  regrets  that  Adlington 
was  not  more  wisely  guided.  For  instance,  the 
servants  of  Philebus,  the  priest  of  the  Syrian  goddess, 
are  called  "  puellae"  by  Apuleius  in  contempt  of  their 
miserable  profession,  and  the  translator  impenetrably  ob- 
scures the  episode  by  rendering  the  word  "  daughters  " 
without  a  hint  of  explanation. 

Still,  all  are  not  so  grave,  though  you  are  constantly 
driven  to  wonder  at  the  ingenuity  of  error.  When 
Byrrhena,  in  her  panegyric  of  Hypata,  tells  Lucius  that 
there  the  merchant  may  encounter  the  bustle  of  Rome, 
the  quiet  visitor  enjoy  the  peace  of  a  country-house, 
Adlington  thus  heroically  misses  the  mark :  "When  the 
Roman  merchants  arrive  in  this  city  they  are  gently 


132  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

and  quietly  entertained,  and  all  that  dwell  within  this 
province  (when  they  purpose  to  solace  and  repose  them- 
selves) do  come  to  this  city  !  "  Verily  there  is  magnifi- 
cence (of  a  kind)  in  such  confusion  ;  and  how  shall  one 
reproach  a  translator,  upon  whom  accuracy  sets  so  light 
a  burden  ?  Again,  with  a  sublime  recklessness  Adling- 
ton  perverts  "  extorta  dentibus  ferarum  trunca  calvaria  " 
into  "  the  jaw-bones  and  teeth  of  wilde  beasts,"  not 
pausing  to  consider  the  mere  formality  of  grammatical 
concord.  And  when  Fotis  relates  how  Pamphile, 
having  failed  to  advance  her  suit  by  other  arts  ("quod 
nihil  etiam  tunc  in  suos  amores  ceteris  artibus  pro- 
moveret"),  designs  to  assume  the  shape  and  feathers  of 
a  bird,  Adlington  so  carelessly  confounds  cause  and 
effect  as  to  say  that  the  transformation  was  intended 
"to  worke  her  sorceries  on  such  as  she  loved." 

"Tunc  solus  ignoras  longe  faciliores  ad  expugnandum 
domus  esse  majores  ? "  asks  one  of  the  robbers ;  and 
Adlington,  with  the  twisted  cleverness  of  a  fourth-form 
boy,  extorts  therefrom  this  platitude  :  "  Why  are  you 
only  ignorant  that  the  greater  the  number  is,  the 
sooner  they  may  rob  and  spoil  the  house  ?  "  When  one 
of  Psyche's  wicked  sisters  threatens  to  go  and  hang 
herself  if  Psyche  prove  the  mother  of  a  god  ("si  divini 
puelli — quod  absit — haec  mater  audierit,  statim  me 
laqueo  nexili  suspendam  "),  "  if  it  be  a  divine  babe," 
says  the  sister  in  the  translation,  "  and  fortune  to  come 
to  the  ears  of  the  mother  (as  God  forbid  it  should  !)  then 
I  may  go  and  hang  my  selfe  :  "  thus  ignorant  was  our 
Englishman  of  the  commonest  idiom.     Once  at  the 


APULEIUS  133 

marriage  of  Charite,  good  fortune  seemed  to  wait 
upon  the  Ass,  and  his  mistress  promised  him  hay- 
enough  for  a  Bactrian  camel  ("foenum  camelo  Bac- 
trinae  sufficiens ") :  a  promise  misinterpreted  by  a 
masterpiece  of  grotesquerie  into  ''  she  would  call  me 
her  little  camell."  With  his  very  easy  baggage  of 
Latin,  the  translator  lost  the  point  of  every  catchword, 
and  turned  the  literary  allusion  into  nonsense.  In  the 
phrase  "non  cervam  pro  virgine  sed  hominem  pro 
homine,"  the  reference  to  Iphigenia  is  patent,  and  yet 
our  excellent  Adlington  gets  no  nearer  the  truth  than 
'"  not  a  servant  for  his  maidens,  but  rather  an  Asse  for 
himselfe  ! " 

So  much  must  be  said  in  dispraise  of  what,  after  all, 
IS  a  masterpiece  of  prose.  The  translator,  said  Dr. 
Johnson,  "  is  to  exhibit  his  author's  thoughts  in  such 
a  dress  as  the  author  would  have  given  them  had  his 
language  been  English."  Now,  Adlington  has  failed, 
with  the  rest  of  the  world,  to  reach  this  high  standard. 
Under  no  conceivable  circumstances  could  Apuleius 
'have  written  in  his  terms  and  with  his  significance. 
For  the  perfect  translation  a  knowledge  of  two  lan- 
guages is  necessary.  The  modern  translator  is  com- 
monly endowed  with  a  complete  apprehension  of  Latin 
or  Greek,  and  is  withal  lamentably  ignorant  of  English. 
Adlington,  on  the  other  hand,  was  sadly  to  seek  in 
Latin,  but  he  more  than  atoned  for  his  slender  know- 
ledge by  an  admirable  treatment  of  his  own  language. 
Though  he  abandoned  the  colour  and  variety  of 
Apuleius,  he  turned  his  author  into  admirable  prose. 


134  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

From  the  first  page  to  the  last  you  will  not  find  a  trace 
of  foreign  idiom.  The  result  is  not  so  much  a  fine 
translation  as  a  noble  original,  fitted  to  endure  by  its 
vigorous  diction  and  excellent  rhythm.  The  manner 
is  perfectly  adapted  to  narration,  and  there  are  few  can 
handle  story  with  better  delicacy  and  point.  The  style, 
if  simple  for  its  age,  has  all  the  distinction  of  simplicity. 
The  cadences  are  a  perpetual  pleasure  to  the  ear.  There 
is  a  stateliness,  a  dignity  of  effect,  which  proves  that  the 
prose  of  the  Authorised  Version  was  no  invention,  but 
a  growth. 

Though  Adlington  does  not  pretend  to  echo  the 
locutions  of  Apuleius,  he  is,  after  his  own  method, 
a  master  of  phrase.  "Girded  with  her  beautiful 
skarfe  of  love " — is  it  not  an  exquisite  idea  ?  How 
more  nearly  or  more  adroitly  would  you  turn  "  tamen 
nisi  capillum  distinxerit "  than  in  these  terms  :  "  if  her 
hair  be  not  curiously  set  forth  ? "  Did  the  modern 
translators  are  to  represent  "ementita  lassitudo"  by 
*'  feigned  and  coloured  weariness,"  there  were  hope 
that  his  craft  might  rise  above  journey-v/ork.  Who 
would  complain  that  the  original  was  embroidered 
when  it  is  to  such  admirable  purpose  as  :  "  Thus  she 
cried  and  lamented,  and  after  she  had  wearied  herself 
with  sorrow  and  blubbered  her  face  with  tears,  she 
closed  the  windows  of  her  hollow  eyes,  and  laid  her 
down  to  sleep."  Here  is  prose,  ever  vivid  and  alert, 
ever  absolved  from  the  suspicion  of  the  stereotyped 
phrase.  In  Adlington's  day  "good  taste"  had  not 
banned  freshness  and  eccentricity  from  the  language. 


APULEIUS  135 

A  century  later  it  had  been  impossible  to  translate 
"  glebosa  camporum  "  into  "  cloggy  fallowed  fields  ;  " 
yet  this  is  Adlington's  expression,  and  it  may  be 
matched  or  bettered  on  every  page. 

Above  all,  his  work  is  distinguished  by  that  sustained 
nobility  of  rhythm  which  makes  the  Tudor  prose  the 
best  of  good  reading.  "  And  while  I  considered  these 
things,  I  looked  about,  and  behold  I  saw  afarre  off  a 
shadowed  valley  adjoyning  nigh  unto  a  wood,  where, 
amongst  divers  other  hearbes  and  plesant  verdures,  me 
thought  I  saw  divers  flourishing  Roses  of  bright  damaske 
colour;  and  said  within  my  beastiall  mind.  Verily 
that  place  is  the  place  of  Venus  and  the  Graces,  where 
secretly  glistereth  the  royall  hew,  of  so  lively  and 
delectable  a  floure : "  here  are  no  exotic  words,  no 
long-sought  images ;  the  rare  effect  is  attained  by  a 
harmony  which  not  even  the  sternest  simplicity  can 
impoverish.  Or  take  a  passage  in  another  key  :  "  In 
the  meane  season  while  I  was  fed  with  dainty  morsels, 
I  gathered  together  my  flesh,  my  skin  waxed  soft,  my 
haire  began  to  shine,  and  was  gallant  on  every  part, 
but  such  faire  and  comely  shape  of  my  body  was 
cause  of  my  dishonour,  for  the  Baker  and  Cooke  mar- 
velled to  see  me  so  slick  and  fine,  considering  I  did 
eat  no  hay  at  all."  Although  the  word  "  slick " 
(aptly  suggested  by  "  nitore  ")  is,  so  to  say,  a  high  Hght, 
the  beauty  still  depends  upon  the  rhythm,  to  which 
Adlington's  ear  is  ever  attuned.  In  brief,  whatever 
defects  of  scholarship  and  restraint  mar  the  trans- 
lation, it  remains  a  model  of  that  large,  untrammelled 


136  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

prose  which,  before  the  triumph  of  common  sense, 
seemed  within  the  reach  of  all.  But  is  it  not  the 
strangest  paradox  of  literary  history,  that  they  who 
lived  in  the  golden  age  of  translation  sought  their 
original  at  second  hand,  or  fumbled  for  their  meaning 
in  the  dark  ! 

One  advantage  at  least  was  enjoyed  by  Adlington. 
He  studied  Apuleius  in  the  native  Latin,  using,  we 
may  believe,  the  famous  folio  of  1500  [cum  Beroaldi 
commentariis\  prefaced  by  that  Vita  Lucii  Apuleii 
summatim  relata^  which  he  paraphrased  in  English 
with  his  accustomed  inaccuracy.  Howbeit,  he  did 
not ''  so  exactly  pass  through  the  author,  as  to  point 
every  sentence  according  as  it  is  in  Latine  ; "  for  so, 
he  adds,  *'  the  French  and  Spanish  translators  have 
not  done."  Nor  is  there  any  doubt  that  he  attempted 
to  amend  his  ignorance  of  Latin  by  the  aid  of  a 
French  version.  It  is  some  proof  of  the  early  popu- 
larity of  *The  Golden  Ass  that  Spain,  Italy  and  France 
had  each  its  translation  into  the  vulgar  tongue  before 
Adlington  undertook  the  work.  In  1522  there 
appeared   a  tiny  quarto  bearing  this  legend  upon  its 

title-page  :  "  Lucius  Apuleius  de  Lasne  dore 

On  les  vend  a  Paris  en  la  grand  rue  St.  Jacques,  Par 
Philippe  le  noir."  It  was  by  one  Guillaume  Michel ; 
and  though  before  the  English  translation  was  a- 
making  there  had  appeared  two  other  versions,  the  one 
by  Georges  de  la  Bouthiere  (Lyons,  1553),  adorned 
with  cuts  in  the  manner  of  Bernard  Salmon,  the  other 
by  I,  Louveau  d'Orleans,  composed  in  1553  and  pub- 


APULEIUS  137 

lished  at  Lyons  five  years  later,  the  earliest  book  was 
a  guide,  and  too  often  a  blind  guide,  unto  Adlington's 
footsteps. 

The  Frenchman  was  the  riper  scholar,  but  not 
only  did  he  indulge  the  tiresome  habit  of  com- 
menting by  the  way,  and  without  warning,  upon  his 
text,  but  he  was  also  guilty  of  the  most  ingenious 
blunders,  which  Adlington,  as  though  his  own  errors 
were  not  sufficient,  too  readily  followed.  A  com- 
parison of  the  versions  sets  the  matter  beyond  un- 
certainty. If  again  and  again  the  same  inaccuracy 
glares  in  English  and  French,  it  is  obvious  that  the 
one  was  borrowed  from  the  other.  At  the  very 
outset  there  is  a  clear  clue.  Guillaume  Michel, 
according  to  his  habit  of  expansion,  paraphrases  "  haec 
me  suadente  "  in  half  a  dozen  lines  ;  Adlington,  turn- 
ing his  invigilant  eye  from  Latin,  is  guilty  of  the  like 
unwarranted  prolixity.  Moreover,  when  Apuleius  by 
a  quip  says  of  Meroe,  "sic  reapse  nomen  ejus  tunc 
fabulis  Socratis  convenire  sentiebam,"  you  are  puzzled 
by  the  ingenuity  of  Adlington's  rendering  :  "  being  so 
named  because  she  was  a  Taverner,"  until  you  turn  to 
the  French  and  find  in  "taverniere"  the  source  of  error. 

Again,  Diophanes,  the  magician  in  Milo's  story,  is 
consulted  by  a  certain  merchant,  Cerdo  by  name. 
(The  Latin  is  unmistakable  :  "Cerdo  quidam  nomine 
negotiator.")  Now,  Adlington  boldly  translates  "a 
certaine  Cobbler,"  and  instantly  the  Frenchman's 
*'quelque  savatier"  explains  the  blunder.  "Toutfoys 
mon  cheval  et  lautre  beste  lasne  de  Milo  ne  me  voulurent 


138  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

souffrir  avec  eulx  paistre : "  so  Michel  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Fourth  Book.  And  thus  Adlington : 
"but  myne  own  horse  and  Miloes  Asse  would  not 
suffer  me  to  feed  there  with  them,  but  I  must  seeke  my 
dinner  in  some  other  place."  The  renderings  agree 
precisely  in  a  gross  inaccuracy,  and  the  Latin  "nee 
me  cum  asino  vel  equo  meo  compascuus  coetus 
attinere  potuit  adhuc  insolitum  alioquin  prandere 
foenum"  is  involved  enough  to  explain  Adlington'& 
reliance  upon  the  French.  Another  passage  is  even 
more  convincing.  "Ad  quandam  villam  possessoris 
beati  perveniunt,"  writes  Apuleius,  whom  Adlington 
translates :  "  we  fortuned  to  come  to  one  Britunis 
house  ; "  nor  would  it  appear  who  this  Britunis  might 
be,  unless  you  turned  to  Michel's  French  and  read, 
"en  aucun  village  chiez  ung  riche  laboureur  nomme 
Brulinus."  This  strange  correspondence  in  error 
might  be  enforced  by  countless  examples.  But  by 
this  it  is  evident  that,  although  Adlington  did  not,  like 
Angell  Day,  Sir  Thomas  North,  George  Nichols 
(translator  of  Thucydides),  render  his  author  from 
the  French  openly  and  without  shame,  he  consulted 
the  French  as  well  as  the  Latin,  and  fared  rather  the 
worse  therefor. 

If  for  a  judgment  of  Adlington  the  writer  there  is 
ample  material,  of  Adlington  the  man  we  know 
nothing  more  than  he  vouchsafes  himself.  That  six 
editions  appeared  in  some  seventy  years  is  proof  of 
the  book's  popularity.  But  its  only  mention  is 
in  the  Register  of   the  Stationers'  Company,  where 


APULEIUS  139 

it  figures  "  In  the  enterynge  of  Coopyes "  between 
July  22,  1565,  and  July  22,  1566,  something  earlier 
than  the  date  of  the  dedication.  "  Wekes.  Recevyd 
of  henry  wekes,"  thus  it  runs,  "for  his  lycense 
for  pryntinge  of  a  boke  intituled  the  hole  boke  of 
lucious  apelious  of  ye  golden  asse^  viijd."  The  epistle 
dedicatory  to  Thomas,  Earl  of  Sussex,  is  dated 
"from  University  College  in  Oxenford,  the  xviii. 
of  September  1566."*  But  whether  or  no  he  was  a 
graduate  of  that  seat  of  learning  is  still  uncertain. 
His  name  does  not  appear  in  the  Register  of  the 
University,  and  in  vain  you  consult  the  common 
sources  of  information.  He  presents  his  book  to  his 
patron  in  the  customary  terms  of  extravagant  eulogy  : 
"The  which  if  your  honourable  Lordship  shall 
accept,"  writes  he  of  his  Apule'ius^  "  and  take  in  good 
part,  I  shall  not  only  thinke  my  small  travell  and 
labour  well  employed,  but  shall  also  receive  a  further 
comfort  to  attempt  some  more  serious  matter." 

If  the  serious  matter  were  ever  attempted,  its  very 
gravity  has  sunk  it  out  of  knowledge :  unless  Adiington 
be  the  author  of  that  very  rare  and  exceeding  obvious 
tract  in  verse,  entitled,  A  Speciall  ^emedie  against 
the  force    of    lawlesse    Love,'\      This   was    published 

•  The  first  edition  was  "imprinted  at  London  in  Fleet  Streate 
at  the  Signe  of  the  Oliphante  by  Henry  Wykes,  Anno  1566." 
Other  editions  appeared  in  1571,  1582  (the  rarest),  1596,  1600  and 
1639. 

t  The  full  title  runs  thus :  *•  A  Speciall  Remedie  against  the 
furious  force  of  lawlesse  Love.  And  also  a  true  description  of 
the  same.     With  our  delightfull  devices  of  daintie  delightes  to 


140  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

in  1579,  and  ascribed  upon  the  title-page  to  W.  A. 
As  the  agreement  of  name  and  date  is  perfect, 
so  also  the  tone  of  the  preface  corresponds  precisely 
with  Adlington's  admonition  to  the  reader  of  The 
Golden  Jsse.  When  the  friendly  reader  of  the 
Speciall  Remedie  is  warned  "how  like  unto  a  beast 
love  transformeth  a  man,  during  the  which  nothing 
can  be  exercised  in  minde,  nothing  by  reason  or  study 
of  minde  can  be  done,"  you  are  forthwith  reminded 
of  Apuleius,  and  of  Lucius  changed  to  an  ass.  The 
verses  are  properly  forgotten,  but  by  his  own  con- 
fession we  know  him  subject  to  an  invincible  morality 
which,  ill  according  with  his  century,  drove  him 
perchance, to  undertake  this  enterprise,  gloomy  enough 
for  oblivion.  "Lector  intende  :  laetaberis;"  such  is  the 
bidding  of  Apuleius.  And  Adlington  apologises  that 
"although  the  matter  seeme  very  light  and  merry, 
yet  the  effect  thereof  tendeth  to  a  good  and  vertuous 
moral,"  just  as  the  author  of  the  Speciall  Remedie 
remarks  with  Plinie,  "  there  is  no  book  so  simple,  but 
that  therein  is  somewhat  worthy  the  noating."  As 
though  the  Milesian  Tale  were  judged,  not  by  its 
pleasantry  and  delight,  but  by  the  quality  of  its  moral 
sustenance  ! 

But  Adlington  was  of  those  who  would  allegorise 

passe  away  idle  time,  with  pleasure  and  profit.  Newly  compiled 
in  English  verse  by  W.  A.  Imprinted  by  Richard  Jhones,  and 
are  to  be  sold  at  his  shop  over  against  S.  Sepulchres  Church 
without  Newgate,  1579."  The  tract,  which  is  unique,  was  found 
in  the  Evidence  Room  in  Northumberland  House,  and  reprinted 
in  1844  by  the  Roxburghe  Society. 


APULEIUS  141 

both  mythology  and  romance.  The  fall  of  Icarus 
is  an  example  to  proud  and  arrogant  persons  that 
"weeneth  to  climbe  up  to  the  heavens;"  and  further, 
he  holds  that  "by  Mydas  is  carped  the  foul  sin 
of  Avarice."  And  as  if  to  excuse  the  translation 
of  a  "  meere  jeast  and  fable,"  he  addresses  to  the  reader 
the  most  solemn  homily,  setting  forth  the  example 
of  Nebuchadnezzar  and  upholding  the  efficacy  of 
prayer.  "  Verily  under  the  wrap  of  this  transforma- 
tion  is  taxed  the  life  of  mortall  men,"  thus  he  writes 
in  the  proper  spirit  of  the  divine  -,  "  concluding  that 
we  can  never  bee  restored  to  the  right  figure  of 
ourselves,  except  we  taste  and  eat  the  sweet  Rose  of 
reason  and  vertue,  which  the  rather  by  mediation  of 
praier  we  may  assuredly  attaine."  Nor  is  this  the 
mere  perversion  of  ingenuity.  His  prudery  is  per- 
fectly sincere.  In  many  places  he  is  inclined,  by  a 
modest  suppression,  to  mitigate  the  gaiety  of  the 
Apuleian  narrative.  But  only  once  he  completely 
sacrifices  his  author's  effect  to  his  own  scruples  ;  and 
the  restrained  nobility  of  his  prose  more  than  atones 
for  lack  of  scholarship  and  a  prudish  habit  of  mind. 
The  lapse  of  three  centuries  has  left  his  book  as  fresh 
and  living  as  its  original,  and  withal  as  brave  a  piece 
of  narrative  as  the  literature  of  his  century  has  ta 
show. 


HERONDAS 


HERONDAS 

BOOKS,  says  Hazlitt,  are  not  like  women,  the 
worse  for  being  old.  But  the  most  of  men, 
loving  the  crude  better  than  the  mellow,  would  cheer- 
fully surrender  the  Classics,  three-fifths  of  which 
America  has  condemned  as  "very  filthy  trash,"  for 
the  last  sensation  of  the  circulating  library.  Perhaps 
it  is  the  spirit  of  optimism  which  compels  this  eager 
interest  in  the  newest  literature.  Upon  so  vast  a 
rubbish-heap,  whispers  Hope,  surely  some  pearls 
may  lie  concealed.  And  then  how  pleasant  a  satis- 
faction is  it  to  forestall  your  neighbour,  to  discourse 
familiarly  of  a  modern  masterpiece,  which  has  eluded 
a  rival's  vigilance  !  Reading  is  pursued  less  for  its 
own  sake  than  from  the  lust  of  discovery.  Nowadays 
genius  must  e'en  divide  the  honours  with  its  Columbus, 
and  not  a  few  critics  affect  to  believe  that,  if  they  did 
not  actually  create  the  works  which  they  "  first  intro- 
duced to  the  public,"  at  least  they  have  the  sole  right 
to  appraise  them.  What  doth  it  profit  us  to  read 
Shakespeare  or  Balzac  ?  In  their  works  there  is  no 
monopoly.     He  who   knows   them    not    must   needs 

K 


146         STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

In  very  shame  feign  their  acquaintance.  So  ancient 
volumes — in  letters  ten  years  are  as  a  thousand — are 
imprisoned,  like  criminals  or  paupers,  in  the  gloomy 
dungeon  of  a  library,  while  the  common  novel  enjoys 
the  larger  freedom  of  Mudie's  and  the  bookstall.  And 
shriller  and  shriller  rises  the  voice  of  Boston,  pro- 
claiming that  before  it  all  was  chaos. 

The  Mimes  of  Herondas,  the  treasure  brought  to 
light  some  years  since  in  the  British  Museum,  should 
gratify  a  double  taste.  Two  thousand  years  old, 
they  are  as  young  as  yesterday.  Though  they  have 
survived  the  searching  test  of  time,  they  have  been 
unseen  of  mortal  eyes  for  countless  centuries.  Pliny, 
with  perhaps  a  suspicion  of  recklessness,  praised  their 
elegance  and  charm  ("humanitas  et  venustas "),  and 
yet  if  you  buy  Mr.  Kenyon's  transcription,  with 
your  own  paper-knife  you  may  separate  their  virgin 
pages.  The  few  short  dialogues,  thus  revealed  to  us, 
will  keep  the  critics  busy  for  years  to  come.  The 
lexicon  must  extend  shelter  to  their  oTraS  u^twxkva ;  their 
disorderly  perfects  will  be  placed  upon  trial  before  a 
jury  of  grammarians,  while  he  whom  no  grammatical 
licence  can  terrify  will  see  in  the  Mimes  of  Herondas 
the  revelation  of  a  lost  genre  as  well  as  a  vivid  and 
familiar  image  of  ancient  life.  Even  in  the  golden 
age  of  Greek  literature  the  mime  was  practised  and 
esteemed.  The  works  of  Sophron,  the  master  of  the 
form,  have  followed  Menander  and  Sappho  into  the 
night  of  forgetfulness.  Yet  it  is  their  glory  to  have 
won  the  admiration  of  Plato,  whose  last  hours  they 


HERONDAS  147 

soothed,  and  who  is  said  to  have  died  with  a  copy  beneath 
his  pillow.  A  few  poor  fragments  and  half  a  dozen 
titles  are  all  that  remain,  and  of  Sophron  no  more  may 
be  said  than  that  he  wrote  a  kind  of  rhythmic  prose 
or  Whitmanian  verse,  and  that  he  pictured  the 
characters  of  his  contemporaries  and  the  habit  of  their 
lives  in  dramatic  dialogues. 

But  there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun,  and  the 
recovery  of  Herondas  proves  beyond  dispute  that  the 
long-lost  mime  is  still  handled  with  success,  that  it 
is  indeed  none  other  than  that  dialogue  which  to-day 
threatens  the  supremacy  of  the  novel.  The  resemblance 
is  more  than  superficial.  In  either  case  the  medium  is 
the  same.  The  favourite  theme  of  Herondas,  as  of  his 
unconscious  imitators,  is  the  passion  and  frivolity  of 
women,  and  he  treats  it  with  a  verve  and  freedom 
after  which  the  moderns  limp  in  vain.  So  the  sugges- 
tion that  the  Mimes  were  intended  for  dramatic  repre- 
sentation appears  ridiculous.  Assertion  must  be  backed 
sby  overwhelming  evidence  before  so  preposterous  an 
opinion  may  be  entertained.  To  bury  these  dainty 
pictures  of  life  and  character  beneath  the  machinery 
of  the  stage  were  too  shameless  an  outrage  upon  the 
proprieties,  which  the  Greek  temperament  was  wont 
to  respect.  Unless  the  Young  Reciter  were  as  deadly 
a  blight  upon  the  ancient  as  upon  the  modern  world, 
the  lines  of  Herondas  can  scarce  have  been  spoken 
in  public.  Imagine  The  Jealous  Woman  performed 
with  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  scenic  display  ! 
The  mere  suggestion  is  blasphemy. 


148  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

For  the  niceties  of  verse  Herondas  displays  a  perfect 
contempt.  His  metre — the  choliambic — is  more 
familiar  than  refined,  and  he  has  treated  it  with  so 
licentious  an  asperity  that  it  produces  the  effect  of 
prose.  It  may  be  compared  to  the  formless  couplet 
wherein  Reece  and  Blanchard  were  wont  to  enshrine 
their  pearls  of  thought.  The  resemblance  is  merely 
external,  as  Herondas  never  stoops  to  the  folly  and 
dulness  of  those  masters  of  burlesque.  The  diction 
is  designedly  undistinguished.  In  vain  you  look  for 
coloured  phrase  or  long-sought  image.  One  expression 
— and  one  alone — lingers  in  the  memory.  In  the 
sixth  mime  two  ladies  are  discussing  with  infinite 
animation  some  mysterious  implement,  the  handi- 
work of  Cerdon,  the  leather- worker.  *'  Its  softness," 
says  Coritto,  in  a  moment  of  feminine  enthusiasm, 
"is  sleep  itself"  (17  juaXoKorijc  virvog).  The  phrase 
is  elegant,  and  though  it  may  have  been  borrowed  from 
Theocritus,  at  any  rate  the  application  is  original. 

But  if  Herondas,  in  spite  of  Pliny's  criticism,  was  not 
wont  to  polish  and  to  refine  his  style,  he  had  a  mar- 
vellous talent  for  presentation.  His  characters  breathe 
and  live  ;  his  simple  situations  are  sketched  in  a  dozen 
strokes,  but  with  so  vivid  a  touch  that  they  are  perfectly 
realised.  The  material  is  drawn  from  the  common- 
place of  life,  but  it  is  handled  with  so  just  a  sense  of 
reality  that  two  thousand  years  have  not  availed  to 
tarnish  the  truth  of  the  picture.  The  book  is  as 
modern  as  though  it  had  been  written — not  recovered — 
yesterday.     The  emotions  which  Herondas  delineates 


HERONDAS  149 

are  not  Greek,  but  human,  and  no  preliminary  cram- 
ming in  archaeology  is  necessary  for  their  appreciation. 
The  student  of  Greek  literature  is  so  intimately  accus- 
tomed to  the  austere  pomp  of  tragedy,  to  the  measured 
dignity  of  restrained  prose,  that  he  is  apt  to  forget 
that  those  who  spake  the  tongue  which  Sophocles 
wrote  also  lived  an  engrossing  life  of  their  own.  You 
contemplate  their  masterpieces  of  art,  and  you  dream 
that  they  paced  through  life  apparelled  ever  in  flowing 
robes,  a  finger  upon  their  brow,  as  though  they  were 
still  rapt  in  adoration  of  the  ideal.  And  you  open 
Heron  das,  and  Gyllis  apologises  to  Metriche  for  not 
having  called  before,  but  then  they  do  live  so  far 
apart,  and  the  roads  are  so  muddy  ;  or  Metro  and 
Coritto  deplore  the  shortcomings  of  their  servants, 
or  a  group  of  trippers  gaze  open-eyed  at  the  glories 
of  the  temple  of  Asclepius.  What  can  touch  the 
sympathies  more  nearly  than  these  sketches  of  life  ? 
Not  even  the  most  real  of  American  realists  could 
snifF  therein  the  pitiful  odour  of  romance  or  classicism. 
Their  familiarity  is,  in  a  sense,  more  thrilling  than 
the  most  exquisite  verse.  Here,  indeed,  is  the  Greek 
revealed  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers.  The  veri- 
similitude is  heightened  by  the  proverbs — or  slang,  if 
you  will — wherewith  the  creations  of  Herondas  enforce 
their  meaning.  "A  ship,"  says  Gyllis,  pressing  the 
temptation  of  Metriche,  "  is  not  safe  on  one  cable  ; " 
while  the  same  lady,  in  extolling  the  virtues  of  her 
champion,  Gryllus,  exclaims  after  Aristophanes  :  "he 
inever  moves  a  chip  (ov^£  kojo^oc  Kiviwv)  ;  he  never 

\ 


150  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

felt  Cythera's  dart."  When  the  unhappy  Battarus 
has  received  a  thrashing  at  Thales*  hands,  he  tells 
the  jury  he  "suffered  as  much  as  a  mouse  in  a 
pitch-pot."  Thus  spake  the  ancients,  and  thus  might 
the  men  and  women  speak  of  to-day.  As  the  world 
was  never  young,  so  it  will  never  grow  old.  The 
archaeologist  devotes  years  of  research  to  compiling 
a  picture  of  Greek  life,  and  the  result  is  Chartdes 
— a  solid  and  unrelieved  mass  of  "local  colour." 
The  life  and  exploits  of  a  generation  are  ruthlessly 
ascribed  to  one  poor  youth,  who  must  needs  crowd 
every  hour  of  his  life,  that  no  custom  be  left  without 
its  illustration.  There  is  no  proportion,  no  atmo- 
sphere, no  background,  so  that  all  is  false  save  the 
details,  which  merely  overload  the  canvas.  Herondas, 
on  the  other  hand,  presents  not  a  picture,  but  an  im- 
pression ;  and  one  mime  reveals  more  of  life  as  it  was 
lived  two  thousand  years  ago  than  the  complete  works 
of  Becker,  Ebers,  and  the  archaeologists. 

Metriche  and  Gyllis,  who  conduct  the  first  dialogue, 
might  have  walked  straight  out  of  (or  into)  the  ribald 
page  of  la  Vie  Parisienne.  Theocritus  has  handled  the 
same  situation — a  morning  call — but  then  he  was  a 
poet,  and  carried  the  mime  off  with  him  to  the  skies* 
Metriche,  the  young  wife  of  Mandris ;  Gyllis,  an  old 
lady  ;  and  Threissa,  Metriche's  maid,  are  the  persons 
of  the  tiny  drama,  and  thus  it  opens  : 

"  Metriche,  Threissa,  there  is  a  knock  at  the  door  ; 
go  and  see  if  it  is  a  visitor  from  the  country. 

"  Threissa,  Who's  there  ? 


HERONDAS  151 

«  Gyllis,  'Tis  I. 

*'  Threissa.  Who  are  you  ?  Are  you  afraid  to  come 
any  nearer  ? 

''  Gyllts,  All  right,  you  see,  I  am  coming  in. 

"  Threissa,  What  name  shall  I  say  ? 

"Gy///V.  Gyllis,  the  mother  of  Philainium.  Go  in- 
doors, and  announce  me  to  Metriche. 

"  Threissa,  A  caller,  ma*am. 

"  Metriche,  What,  Gyllis,  dear  old  Gyllis  !  Turn 
the  chair  round  a  little,  girl.  What  fate  induced  you 
to  come  and  see  me,  Gyllis  ?  An  angel's  visit,  indeed  ! 
Why,  I  believe  it's  five  months  since  any  one  dreamt 
of  your  knocking  at  my  door. 

"  Gyllis,  I  live  far  off,  my  dear,  and  the  mud  in  the 
lane  is  up  to  your  knees.  I  am  no  stronger  than  a 
fly,  for  old  age  is  heavy  upon  me,  and  the  shadow  of 
death  is  at  my  side. 

"  Metriche,  Cheer  up  !  don't  malign  Father  Time  ; 
you  are  strong  enough  yet  to  strangle  others. 

"  Gyllis,  Joke  away  ;  that's  natural  for  girls  like 
you,  though  joking  won't  stir  your  blood.  But,  my 
dear  girl,  what  a  long  time  you've  been  a  widow. 
It's  ten  months  since  Mandris  was  despatched  to 
Egypt,  and  he  hasn't  sent  you  a  single  line;  doubtless 
he  has  forgotten  you,  and  is  drinking  at  a  new  spring. 
The  house  of  the  goddess  is  there.  For  in  Egypt  you 
may  find  all  things  that  are  or  ever  were — wealth,  athle- 
tics, power,  fine  weather,  glory,  goddesses,  philosophers, 
gold,  handsome  youths,  the  shrine  of  the  god  and 
goddess,  the  most  excellent  king,  the  finest  museum  in 


152  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

the  world,  wine,  all  the  good  things  you  can  desire, 
and  women,  by  Persephone,  countless  as  the  stars  and 
beautiful  as  the  goddesses  that  appealed  to  Paris." 

So  Gyllis,  increasing  her  boldness,  suggests  that 
Mandris  is  dead,  and  reveals  the  purpose  of  her  visit. 

"  Now  listen  to  the  news  I  have  brought  you  after 
this  long  time.  You  know  Gryllus,  the  son  of  Mata- 
chene,  who  was  such  a  famous  athlete  at  school,  won 
a  couple  of  prizes  at  Corinth  when  a  youth,  and 
remains  to-day  an  eminent  bruiser  ?  Then  he  is 
very  rich,  and  he  leads  the  quietest  life — a  virgin  seal, 
so  help  me  Cytherea.  Well,  he  saw  you  the  other  day 
in  the  procession  of  Misa,  and  was  smitten  to  the 
heart.  And,  my  dear  girl,  he  never  leaves  my  house 
day  or  night,  but  he  bemoans  his  fate ;  he  is  positively 
dying  of  love.  Now,  my  dear  Metriche,  for  my  sake 
do  commit  this  one  little  sin.  You  will  have  a  double 
joy.  .  .  .  Think  it  over,  take  my  advice,  he  loves  you." 

Metriche  is  righteously  indignant. 

"By  the  fetes,  Gyllis,  your  white  hairs  blunt  your 
reason.  As  I  hope  for  the  return  of  Mandris  and 
the  favour  of  our  Lady  Demeter,  I  shouldn't  like  to 
have  heard  this  from  another  woman's  lips.  .  .  .  And 
you,  my  dear,  never  come  to  my  house  with  such 
proposals  again.  .  .  .  For  none  may  make  mock  of 
Mandris.  But,  if  what  the  world  says  be  true,  I 
needn't  speak  to  Gyllis  like  this.  Threissa,  let  us 
have  some  refreshments ;  bring  the  decanter  and  some 
water,  and  give  the  lady  something  to  drink.  .  .  . 
Now,  Gyllis,  drink,  and  show  that  you  aren't  angry." 


HERONDAS  153 

And  so  with  a  delightful  interchange  of  civilities  the 
quarrel  is  brought  to  an  end.  "  The  chatter  of  women," 
says  the  translator  of  Theocritus,  "has  changed  no 
more  in  a  thousand  years  than  the  song  of  birds." 

The  second  mime  is  in  a  very  different  key.  The 
scene  is  a  law  court,  where  Battarus,  who  pursues  the 
pandar's  ancient  calling,  brings  an  action  against  one 
Thales,  a  Phrygian  plutocrat,  a  famous  rastaquoere^ 
for  assault  and  battery.  The  plaintiff's  speech  is  as 
admirable  a  specimen  of  Old  Bailey  tub-thumping  as 
may  be  found  outside  the  private  orations  of  Demos- 
thenes. "  Deem  not,"  exclaims  the  valiant  Battarus, 
"  that  in  protecting  me  you  are  guarding  the  interest 
of  a  poor  pimp.  No,  the  honour  and  independence  of 
your  city  are  at  stake.  I  have  been  assaulted  and 
robbed  by  one  who  is  not  a  citizen,  who  is  not  even  a 
man,  but  a  Phrygian  rascal — Artimmas  was  his  name, 
though  now  he  has  the  effrontery  to  call  himself  Thales. 
He  thinks  because  he  has  a  yacht  and  smart  clothes  that 
he  is  a  gentleman  with  the  privilege  of  assault.  But 
your  laws  condemn  him — your  laws  which  protect  even 
the  slave  from  injury.  Yet  what  should  you,  Thales, 
know  of  laws  or  cities — you  who  spend  to-day  at 
Bricindera,  and  are  off  towards  Abdera  to-morrow  ? 
I  suffered  as  much  as  a  mouse  in  the  pitchpot. 
To  cut  a  long  story  short,  this  Thales  came  to  my 
house  the  other  night,  broke  open  my  door,  knocked 
me  down,  and  carried  off  my  Myrtale  by  force.  Come 
here,  Myrtale,  show  yourself  to  the  court :  don't  be 
ashamed ;  imagine  that   the  jury  who   face  you  are 


154  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

all  brothers  and  fathers.  See,  gentlemen,  how  di- 
shevelled she  looks  ;  that's  all  because  this  scoundrel 
dragged  her  off  with  intolerable  violence.  O,  old  age, 
had  it  not  been  for  you,  this  ruffian  should  have  spilt 
his  blood  !  You  laugh  ?  I  follow  a  disreputable  trade 
— that  I  don't  deny — and  my  name  is  Battarus,  and 
my  father  Sisymbrus,  and  my  grandfather  Sisymbris- 
cus  (both  inglorious  names),  were  pandars  before  me, 
but  Thales  should  treat  me  decently  all  the  same. 
You,  Thales,  will  object  that  you  love  Myrtale ; 
well,  I  love  porridge ;  give  me  the  one  and  you  shall 
have  the  other.  Nay,  if  you  wish  it,  Thales,  I  am 
ready  to  be  put  to  the  torture,  but  you  must  first 
deposit  the  penalty.  When  I  ask  you  for  a  verdict, 
gentlemen,  I  am  thinking  not  only  of  myself,  but  of 
all  the  strangers  who  take  refuge  in  your  city.  You 
will  show  how  great  is  Cos,  how  powerful  Merops ; 
you  will  declare  the  fame  that  belonged  to  Thessaly 
and  to  Hercules  ;  you  will  relate  how  Asclepius 
came  hither  from  Tricca,  and  how  it  was  here  that 
Phcebe  gave  birth  to  Leto.  And  it  will  do  Thales 
good  to  be  cast,  for  the  more  you  beat  a  Phrygian 
the  better  he  is,  if  the  ancient  proverb  do  not  lie." 
And  doubtless  the  jurymen  of  Cos  found  the  flattery 
of  Battarus,  if  not  his  eloquence,  irresistible,  and 
awarded  a  comfortable  verdict.  The  speech,  though  it 
be  not  literature  of  the  best  kind,  is  an  interesting 
document ;  and  in  the  plaintiflPs  frank  confession  of 
his  own  iniquities,  as  in  the  exquisitely  pompous 
peroration,  there  is  even  a  touch  of  the  sublime. 


HERONDAS  155 

The  scene  shifts  to  the  house  of  a  schoolmaster,  who 
is  implored  by  an  indignant  mother  to  chastise  her 
impudent  good-for-nothing  son.  Flog  him,  she  says, 
within  an  inch  of  his  miserable  life  {a-xpig  v  ^l^vxn 
avTOv  iirl  X£tXi(t)v  jULOvvov  17  KaKrj  XsKJidy)*  The  text  is 
so  corrupt  that  we  can  only  form  a  vague  opinion  of 
the  rascal's  crimes.  He  has  a  taste  for  bad  company 
and  spends  the  livelong  day  in  knuckle-bones,  and  when 
that  seems  too  tame,  he  brings  ruin  on  his  mother's 
house  with  pitch-and-toss.  Then  "he  positively  re- 
fuses to  work,  and  his  wretched  slate  lies  desolate  in  a 
corner,  except  when  with  a  leer  of  destruction  he 
rubs  it  all  out.  But  his  knuckle-bones  are  always 
polished  and  put  away  in  their  bag,  brighter  than 
the  oil-jar,  which  we  use  for  everything.  And  then 
he  doesn't  even  know  his  alphabet  unless  one  shouts 
it  at  him  a  dozen  times.  .  .  .  Indeed  I  think  I  was  a 
fool  to  teach  him  his  letters,  thinking  he  would  be  a 
prop  for  my  old  age,  when  he  is  only  fit  to  feed  donkeys. 
...  And  if  we  dare  to  scold,  he  won't  cross  the 
threshold  for  three  days,  and  breaks  his  poor  old 
mother's  heart  with  anxiety,  or  he  will  sit  astride  the 
roof  like  a  monkey  and  glare  down  at  us.  And  that 
is  not  all.  He  breaks  the  tiles,  so  that  when  the  winter 
comes,  the  neighbours  have  but  one  voice  :  *  Cottalus 
the  son  of  Metrotime  has  been  at  his  tricks  again.'  Stripe 
him  black  and  blue,  Lampriscus,  as  a  Delian  fisher- 
man, who  drags  out  his  wretched  life  upon  the  sea." 
The  schoolmaster  is  stern,  as  becomes  his  trade,  and 
calls  for  his  cow-hide.     Poor  Cottalus  is  unmercifuUy^ 


156  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

thrashed,  and  promises  repentance  between  the  blows, 
invoking  the  friendly  Muses  and  his  master's  beard. 
But  his  mother  is  obdurate.  "  Take  him  away,"  says 
the  schoolmaster  to  his  slaves.  "  No,  Lampriscus,'* 
shouts  the  mother,  "  don't  leave  ofF  until  the  sun  goes 
down."  "  He  is  far  more  mottled  than  a  water-snake 
already,"  replies  Lampriscus,  and  the  boy  is  driven 
off  to  reflect  in  confinement  upon  his  crimes  and  their 
punishment. 

Far  gayer  in  spirit  is  The  Visit  to  the  Temple  of 
t/^sclepius.  Here  are  two  ladies  laden  with  offerings 
who  come  to  consult  the  god.  The  demands  of  piety 
once  satisfied  by  a  comprehensive  prayer  to  Ascle- 
pius,  and  to  all  the  gods  and  goddesses  who  cherish  his 
hearth,  they  wander  off  to  look  at  the  statues  which 
adorn  the  temple,  and  to  express  with  confidence  their 
innocent  enthusiasm.  They  might  be  modern  tourists 
at  Westminister  Abbey.  "  Dear,  dear,  friend  Cynno," 
murmurs  one,  "do  look  at  the  beautiful  statues. 
Whose  work  is  that,  and  who  set  it  up  ?  "  "  The 
sons  of  Praxiteles  were  the  sculptors,"  replies  Cynno, 
"  can't  you  see,  it's  written  on  the  base  ?  And  Euthies, 
the  son  of  Prexo,  set  it  up.  .  .  .  But  see  the  girl 
gazing  at  the  apple.  She  will  die  on  the  spot  if  she 
doesn't  get  hold  of  it  \  and  look  at  the  boy  strangling 
the  goose  !  If  it  weren't  made  of  stone  you  would  say 
that  he  would  speak  in  our  very  presence.  Before  very 
long,  men  will  be  able  to  put  life  into  stones.  Follow 
me,  my  dear,  and  I  will  show  you  such  wonders  as  you 
have  never  seen  in  all  your  life."     The  art  criticism. 


HERONDAS  157 

the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for  ever,  is  interrupted 
by  Cynno's  altercation  with  her  maid.  "  Go  and  fetch 
the  verger  !  "  screams  the  visitant.  But  the  poor  girl, 
overcome  doubtless  by  the  many  splendours  of  the 
temple,  merely  stands  gaping  at  her  mistress.  ''  She 
glares  with  an  eye  bigger  than  a  crab's.  Go  and  fetch 
the  verger,  I  tell  you  !  "  Cynno's  friend  attempts  to 
soothe  the  lady's  frenzy.  "  She  is  a  slave,"  she  mutters, 
"  and  the  ears  of  a  slave  are  always  slow."  And  even 
Cynno  is  pacified  at  last.  "  Stay,"  she  cries,  "  the 
door  is  open  and  we  can  enter  the  chancel " ;  and 
again  the  ladies  fall  to  art  criticism.  "  You  might 
think  that  Athene  fashioned  those  beautiful  works." 
"  If  I  were  to  scratch  this  naked  boy,"  replies  the 
other,  "  don't  you  think  I  should  leave  a  scar  ?  And 
this  cow,  and  the  man  leading  it,  and  the  woman  who 
meets  him,  and  that  hook-nosed  fellow,  and  the  man 
with  bristles  on  his  forehead,  aren't  they  lifelike  ? " 
"  To  be  sure  they  are,"  says  Cynno ;  ''  but  then 
Apelles  always  is  so  realistic."  These  words  are  an 
echo  of  the  country  cousin  at  the  Academy ;  but  the 
verger  approaches  to  declare  that  the  ladies'  sacrifice 
is  acceptable  and  of  a  good  portent,  and  to  call  down 
the  blessing  of  the  god  upon  them  and  their  kin. 
Whereupon  he  is  made  happy  by  the  drumstick — a 
cock  was  the  offering  ;  and  it  is  only  the  payment  in 
kind,  which  separates  the  drama  from  our  own  time. 

But  The  Jealous  Woman  (17  ?rjXoru7rof )  is 
Herondas'  masterpiece.  Its  reality  may  only  be 
matched    in    the    most    modern    French    literature. 


158  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

There  is  a  frank  brutality  in  its  subject  which 
might  have  endeared  it  to  M.  de  Maupassant,  but  so 
exquisitely  is  it  handled,  so  justly  is  it  proportioned, 
that  its  realism  does  not  and  cannot  offend.  Bitinna, 
an  elderly  lady,  is  madly  jealous  of  Gastro,  her  favourite 
slave.  She  has  caught  him  w^ith  Amphytaea,  Meno's 
daughter,  and  the  poor  v^^retch  sheepishly  confesses 
that  he  "  has  seen "  the  girl  his  mistress  mentions. 
Bitinna  is  furious,  and  Gastro  replies  with  much 
dignity  :  "  Bitinna,  I  am  a  slave  ;  use  me  as  you  will, 
but  do  not  suck  my  blood  day  and  night " — a  phrase 
which  might  have  come  from  the  very  latest  and  most 
daring  of  French  novels.  However,  Bitinna  is  not 
to  be  appeased.  "It  is  I,"  says  she,  " who  made  you 
a  man  among  men,  and  if  I  did  wrong,  you  will  not 
again  find  Bitinna  the  fool  you  think  her."  So  in  a 
frenzy  she  orders  her  favourite  to  be  stripped  and 
flogged — a  thousand  stripes  on  his  back,  a  thousand 
on  his  belly,  and  bids  her  slaves  drag  him  off  to  the 
punishment.  "  Bitinna,"  he  pleads,  "  forgive  me  this 
once.  I  am  but  a  man  and  I  sinned.  But  if  ever 
again  you  catch  me  doing  what  you  do  not  wish, 
brand  me."  At  length,  after  a  torrent  of  altercation  and 
abuse,  she  changes  her  mind  and,  resolving  to  brand 
him,  bids  Cosis  to  attend  with  his  needles  and  his 
ink.  Then  Cydilla,  a  slave  girl,  intercedes  for  the 
miserable  Gastro,  and  the  hard  heart  of  Bitinna  is  soft- 
ened by  the  vapid  argument  that  it  is  a  Saint's  day, 
and  that  the  festival  of  the  dead  is  approaching. 
"  This  time  I  will  forgive  you,  but  give  your  thanks 


HERONDAS  159 

to  Cydilla  here,  whom    I    love  as  well   as  my   own 
Batyllis,  and  whom  I  nursed  with  my  own  hands." 

The  denouement  is  tame  and  trivial,  and  wholly  un- 
worthy of  the  spirited  opening.  But  the  fact  that  they 
do  live  happy  ever  after  avails  not  to  spoil  a  marvel- 
lously vivid  and  cruel  picture  of  life.  In  Greek 
literature  it  is  unsurpassed,  and  the  world  scarce 
realises  yet  how  precious  a  treasure  it  has  got  in 
Herondas.  There  is  not  a  single  mime  that  has  not  a 
character  and  interest  of  its  own.  The  others,  difficult 
as  they  are,  contain  the  most  spirited  passages.  Coritto 
and  Metro,  for  example,  prattle  with  light-hearted 
vivacity  of  a  disreputable  object — /3av/3a>v  they  call  it — 
the  work  of  an  artist  in  leather,  named  Cerdo.  Metro 
is  burning  to  find  the  author  of  the  masterpiece,  and 
implores  Coritto  to  tell  her  where  he  may  be  seen. 
At  last  Coritto  is  complaisant,  and  presently — in 
another  mime — Metro  pays  the  distinguished  cobbler 
a  visit.  These  three  personages  are  realised  with 
perfect  conviction  and  more  than  a  touch  of  malice. 
The  corrupt  Coritto,  the  eager,  cunning  Metro, 
the  volubly  insolent  Cerdo  will  be  familiar  till  the  end 
of  time.  The  fragments,  moreover,  are  provoking  in 
their  incompleteness.  There  is  enough  left  of  The 
Dream  to  convince  you  that  the  farmer's  indignant 
wife,  who  in  a  fury  awakens  her  lazy  slaves,  bidding 
them  drive  the  pig  to  pasture,  would  have  been  a  por- 
trait not  unworthy  its  gallery.  But,  alas  !  its  conclusion 
is  no  better  than  a  collection  of  inarticulate  symbols. 

Such,  in  brief  outline,  is  the  work  of  this   long- 


i6o  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

forgotten  poet.  To  have  brought  him  once  more  to 
light  is  an  achievement  of  which  the  British  Museum 
may  well  be  proud.  The  mimes  are  not  statues  of  the 
fifth  century,  but  rather  exquisite  terra-cottas,  quaintly 
and  daintily  fashioned,  such  as  prudery  commonly 
withdraws  from  public  exhibition,  and  softened  by  that 
touch  of  nature  which  makes  fiction  real,  and  renders 
the  old  new  again.  And  it  gives  us  good  hope  of  the 
future.  If  Herondas  be  found,  why  not  Sophron,  or 
Menander,  or  the  priceless  Sappho  herself?  An  unjust 
fate  still  hides  the  works  of  these  artists  from  our  gaze. 
But  we  have  Herondas,  and  let  us  make  the  best  of 
him.  At  any  rate,  he  has  proved  that  scholarship  too 
may  know  the  excitement  of  discovery. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 


IF  Poe's  life  was  a  tangle  of  contradiction,  his 
posthumous  fame  has  been  a  very  conflict  of 
opposites.  He  has  been  elevated  to  heaven,  he  has 
been  depressed  to  hell ;  he  has  been  pictured  angel 
and  devil,  drunkard  and  puritan.  His  poetry  has 
seemed  to  this  one  the  empty  tinkling  of  a  cymbal,  to 
that  the  last  expression  of  verbal  beauty.  But  despite 
the  warfare  of  opinions,  he  has  been  read  and  imitated 
throughout  the  world,  and  he  is  still,  after  half  a 
century,  the  dominant  influence  of  three  literatures. 
An  inventor  in  many  fields,  he  deserves  whatever 
homage  may  be  paid  him  ;  and  if  his  genius  has  been 
somewhat  obscured  by  the  monument,  in  ten  volumes, 
which  Chicago  has  erected  to  his  honour,  the  zealot 
will  discover  many  a  block  of  pure  marble,  half  hidden 
in  the  heap  of  shot  rubble. 

Poe  in  ten  volumes  !  Did  fortune  ever  play  a  more 
wayward  trick  upon  a  man  ?  Poe  in  ten  volumes — 
Poe,  to  whom  a  long  poem  was  a  flat  contradiction  ! 
His  editors  omit  nothing,  who  might  have  omitted  so 
much.     They  spare  you  neither  his  casual  reflections 


i64  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

upon  handwriting,  nor  his  ephemeral  portraits  of 
America's  forgotten  literati.  Did  he,  in  the  Forties, 
review  such  a  piece  of  bookmaking  as  was  not  worth 
his  momentary  regard,  it  is  at  last  set  forth  with  the 
added  dignity  of  enclosing  covers.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  he  would  have  been  shocked  himself  at  this  work 
of  patient  resurrection.  Had  he  but  lived  to  edit  his 
own  work,  his  fastidious  care  would  assuredly  have  re- 
jected the  journalism  and  cut  the  final  edition  short  by 
five  volumes.  Yet  it  were  ungracious  to  reproach  the 
piety  of  his  editors.  If  you  are  indiiFerent  to  Poe's 
opinion  of  Christopher  P.  Cranch,  you  need  not  read 
it  ;  and,  having  all,  you  are  not  harassed  by  the  fear 
that  you  have  been  defrauded  of  a  masterpiece. 

No  sooner  was  Poe  dead  than  he  became  the  im- 
mediate prey  of  the  body-snatcher.  The  literary 
hyena  fastened  upon  his  corpse,  and  fattened  hideously 
upon  his  desecrated  blood.  No  poet,  since  Shelley, 
had  given  the  ghoul  so  rich  an  opportunity.  As  the 
whole  tragedy  of  Poe's  life  sprang  from  a  hostile 
environment,  so  after  his  death  the  environing  enemies 
leapt  to  their  final  act  of  resentment  and  revenge.  He 
was  a  drunken  monster,  who  had  committed  all  the 
crimes  invented  in  his  gloomiest  romances.  JVilUam 
Wilson  was  a  true  page  of  autobiography  ;  the  brutali- 
ties of  The  Black  Cat  were  among  the  slightest  of  his 
indiscretions  ;  worse  even,  teste  Gilfillan,  he  murdered 
his  wife  that  he  might  find  a  suitable  motive  for  The 
Raven  I  Now,  if  Gilfillan  had  read  the  works  of  his 
victim,  he  would  have  known  that  realism  was  loath- 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  165 

some  to  the  temperament  of  Poe,  who  had  no  need  to 
rehearse  his  effects.  But  when  the  slanderer  is  abroad, 
he  cares  not  how  flagrant  are  his  calumnies,  especially 
if  he  speak  in  the  cause  of  morality.  Stupidity's  true 
mouthpiece,  however,  was  one  Rufus  Griswold,  who 
easily  outgilfillaned  the  smug  Gilfillan  himself.  This 
vessel  of  wrath  had  been  the  poet's  friend,  and  (strange 
to  tell)  Poe,  by  appointing  him  his  literary  executor, 
was  unconsciously  guilty  of  posthumous  suicide. 
Griswold  was  not  one  to  lose  an  illegitimate  occasion. 
Poe  died  on  October  8,  1849.  On  October  9 
Griswold's  infamy  was  in  type.  Hate  and  malice 
scream  in  every  line  of  this  monumental  hypocrisy. 
Here  speaks,  through  the  mouth  of  Griswold,  the 
hungry  middle-class,  which  hated  poetry  and  loathea 
the  solitary  dignity  of  Poe.  The  poet's  character, 
said  this  literary  Pecksniff,  was  "  shrewd  and  naturally 
unamiable."  He  recognised  no  "moral  susceptibili- 
ties "  J  he  knew  "  little  or  nothing  of  the  true  point  of 
honour."  His  one  desire  was  to  ^^  succeed — not  shine, 
not  serve — succeed,  that  he  might  have  the  right  to 
despise  a  world  which  galled  his  self-conceit."  And 
so  magnificently  did  he  "  succeed,"  so  vilely  did  he 
sacrifice  his  art  to  prosperity,  that  America,  which 
kept  Griswold  in  affluence,  condemned  the  author  of 
William  Wilson  to  starvation  and  neglect ! 

But  Griswold's  purple  patch  must  be  given  in  its 
true  colour.  In  these  terms  did  our  moralist  describe 
the  friend,  laid  but  a  few  hours  since  in  the  grave : 
^'  Passions,  in  him,  comprehended  many  of  the  worst 


i66  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

emotions  which  militate  against  human  happiness. 
You  could  not  contradict  him  but  you  raised  quick 
choler  ;  you  could  not  speak  of  wealth  but  his  cheek 
paled  with  gnawing  envy.  The  astonishing  natural 
advantages  of  this  poor  boy — his  beauty,  his  readiness, 
the  daring  spirit  that  breathed  around  him  like  a  fiery 
atmosphere — had  raised  his  constitutional  self-con- 
fidence into  an  arrogance  that  turned  his  very  claims 
to  admiration  into  prejudices  against  him.  Irascible, 
envious — bad  enough,  but  not  the  worst,  for  these 
salient  angles  were  all  varnished  over  with  a  cold, 
repellent  cynicism  ;  his  passions  vented  themselves  in 
sneers."  Those  there  are  who  assert  that  Griswold's 
outrage  upon  truth  and  taste  was  a  revenge,  deliberately 
taken  upon  Poe's  hostile  criticism.  But  there  is  no 
need  to  spy  out  a  motive  for  so  simple  a  crime. 
Griswold  spoke  not  for  himself,  but  for  his  world. 
Genius  is  repellent  to  those  who  know  it  not  ;  gaiety  is 
a  crime  in  the  eyes  of  unhappier  men  who  fear  not  the 
disease.  The  envious  morality  of  hypocrites,  in  whose 
veins  vinegar  flows  for  blood,  rises  superior  to  all  the 
obligations  of  taste  and  friendship.  No  doubt  the 
infamous  Rufus  laid  down  his  pen  that  day  with  infi- 
nite content  ;  no  doubt  he  adjusted  his  spectacles  over 
the  Tribune  next  morning  with  a  more  than  usual 
placidity.  Thus  he,  who  would  not  allow  a  poet  the 
licence  of  displeasure,  gives  an  easy  rein  to  his  own 
denunciation.  Nor  does  the  poor  devil  divine  the 
incongruity.  Poe's  "  harsh  experience,"  he  says  in  a 
tone  of  grievance,  "  had  deprived  him  of  all  faith  in 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  167 

Of  course  it  had  :  Poe  had  known 
Griswold. 

But  all  the  world  was  not  as  Griswold.  Willis  was 
quick  to  champion  the  dead  man,  and  to  declare  that 
he  had  always  been  for  him  an  exemplar  of  amiability. 
Indeed,  there  is  a  cloud  of  witnesses  to  prove  not  only 
the  cowardice  of  Griswold,  but  his  untruth.  To 
Mrs.  Osgood  Poe  was  never  "  otherwise  than  gentle, 
generous,  well-bred,  and  fastidiously  refined."  The 
intelligent  few  among  his  contemporaries  understood 
him,  at  least  by  flashes,  and  did  not  apply  to  him  the 
rigorous  code  of  a  magistrate  trying  a  drunken  navvy. 
To  visit  him  at  his  house  (you  are  told)  was  to  be 
convinced  of  his  refinement  and  simplicity.  There 
was  one  friend  who  found  this  envious  monster  devot- 
ing himself  to  the  care  of  birds  and  flowers.  And, 
strangest  irony  of  all,  Mrs.  Whitman,  whom  Poe*s 
enemies  assert  to  have  endured  the  worst  affront, 
proved  the  noblest  and  most  eloquent  of  his  cham- 
pions. Had  not  the  shriek  of  malice  been  raised  so 
often,  Poe's  character  might  be  left  to  defend  itself. 
His  works  are  ours ,  his  opinions  are  familiar,  if  not 
accepted  ;  the  music  of  his  verse  still  sings  in  our  ear. 
But  the  dishonour  done  to  his  memory  compels  a 
defence,  especially  since  the  very  simplicity  of  his 
character  exposed  him  to  affront.  There  should,  then, 
be  no  uncertainty  in  a  benign  judgment.  Some  men, 
says  Baudelaire,  have  guignon  written  upon  their  fore- 
head, and  Edgar  Poe  was  of  their  number.  He  was 
born  out  of  time,  out  of  place.     He  was   bidden  to 


i68  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

live  in  an  alien  and  a  hostile  world,  whence  he  recoiled 
in  an  impotent  horror.  A  poet  whose  intelligence 
was  solitary  and  aloof,  he  was  driven  into  the  battle- 
field, and  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  suffered  irre- 
mediable defeat  at  the  hands  of  the  Griswolds  of  his 
time.  His  life  was  always  a  dream,  often  a  nightmare ; 
and,  since  he  lived  shut  up  within  himself,  he  knew 
not  envy,  but  merely  contempt.  How  should  lie  be 
envious  of  the  contemporaries  whom  he  surpassed  ? 
Despite  his  melancholy,  he  enjoyed  those  periods  of 
sanguine  expectation  which  are  proper  to  his  tempera- 
ment. For  instance,  he  preserved  a  fervent  faith  in 
The  Stylus^  that  imagined  review  which  should  reform 
American  literature  and  fill  his  pocket.  The  exem- 
plary burgess  denounced  him  for  a  drunkard  and  a 
sloth,  forgetting,  in  his  hasty  censure,  that  Poe  was 
not  only  devoted  to  his  family  and  friends,  but  that  in 
sixteen  years  he  produced  a  greater  sum  of  admirable 
work  than  any  octogenarian  in  America. 

He  was  an  idealist,  caught  up  into  a  real  world  ;  he 
was  a  poet  stifled  in  an  atmosphere  of  commerce  and 
morality  ;  he  was  a  Southerner  in  the  midst  of  Abo- 
litionists ;  he  was  a  lofty  aristocrat  living  in  an  un- 
bridled democracy.  His  very  beauty,  the  charm  of 
his  voice,  the  quiet  distinction  of  his  manner,  his  love 
of  splendour,  of  noble  houses,  and  Italian  gardens — all 
these  qualities  aroused  the  suspicion  of  his  contempo- 
raries. His  years  of  travel,  his  swiftly  garnered  ex- 
perience had  given  him  that  air  of  a  "  gentleman  " 
which  is  seldom  beloved  in  a  progressive  state.    Though 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  169 

it  is  ever  hazardous  to  confuse  a  writer  with  his  work, 
yet  one  may  believe  that  in  The  Domain  of  Arnheim 
Ellison's  ideals  are  Poe's  own.  Little  enough  have 
they  to  do  with  citizenship  or  a  liberal  franchise. 
Here  they  are — ( i )  free  exercise  in  the  open  air  ; 
{2)  the  love  of  woman  ;  (3)  the  contempt  of  ambition  ; 
(4)  the  conviction  that  attainable  happiness  is  in  pro- 
portion to  its  spirituality.  Naturally  Griswold  found 
nothing  in  these  aspirations  save  arrogance  and  con- 
tempt. 

But  Poe,  in  a  letter  to  Lowell,  has  best  described 
his  own  temperament.  "I  am  excessively  slothful 
and  wonderfully  industrious,"  he  said,  "  by  fits."  He 
denies  that  he  is  ambitious,  unless  negatively.  ''I 
really  perceive,"  goes  on  the  passage  of  self-revelation, 
"that  vanity  about  which  most  men  merely  prate — 
the  vanity  of  the  human  or  temporal  life.  I  live 
continually  in  a  reverie  of  the  future.  I  have  no 
faith  in  human  perfectibility.  I  think  that  human 
exertion  will  have  no  appreciable  effect  upon  humanity." 
How  should  a  poet  frank  enough  to  formulate  these 
truths,  a  poet  whose  life  was  "  whim,  impulse,  passion, 
a  longing  for  solitude,  a  scorn  of  all  things  present " — 
how  should  he  appeal  to  the  sympathy  of  his  age  or 
even  to  the  bluff  optimism  of  Mr.  Lowell  ? 

But  the  dullard's  heaviest  artillery  has  been  mar- 
shalled against  the  crime  of  drunkenness.  The  poet's 
life  is — in  this  aspect — a  series  of  iterated  and  repelled 
charges.  Yet  the  most  that  has  been  proved  against 
Poe  is  that  wine  had  an  instant  and  perverse  effect 


170  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

upon  his  brain.  Let  the  dullard  go  home  and  thank 
God  for  that  superior  virtue  which  permits  him  to 
drink  his  muddy  beer  in  peace ;  let  him  also  reflect 
that  no  wine  could  purchase  for  him  the  dreams,  the 
poems,  the  hopes  which  it  purchased  for  Poe.  That 
his  death  was  tragic  and  premature  is,  alas !  indisputable. 
And  here,  again,  has  been  an  occasion  for  much 
foolishness.  He  died,  like  Marlow  and  many  another 
man  of  genius,  in  the  street,  unheeded,  almost  un- 
recognised. But  he  died  at  his  own  time,  when  his 
work  was  done,  a  victim  to  the  stolid  stupidity  of 
circumstance.  He  was  great,  not  on  account  of  his 
frailty,  which  the  foolish  sometimes  mistake  for  talent, 
but  in  his  frailty's  despite ;  and  he  yields  not  in  good 
fortune  to  the  mirror  of  respectability,  whose  sole 
congratulation  is  that  his  unremembered  and  useless 
life  trickles  out  amiably  in  bed. 

It  is  strangely  ironical  that  though  he  would  have 
chosen  to  live  in  the  Kingdom  of  Fancy,  he  was 
driven  at  the  outset  to  a  picturesque  activity.  His 
descent  was  distinguished,  yet  he  was  little  better  than 
a  foundling  when  he  was  adopted  into  the  family  of 
John  Allan,  who  brought  him  up  in  gentle  affluence. 
His  education  was  varied  and  efficient.  Two  years 
spent  at  Stoke  Newington,  at  the  school  of  Dr. 
Bransby,  gave  him  the  local  colour  for  William  Wilson^ 
and  a  hint  for  the  description  of  that  veritable  "  palace 
of  enchantment,"  wherein  his  unhappy  hero  met  his 
conscience.  Thereafter  he  returned  to  America,  spent 
a  year  without  profit  at  the  University  of  Virginia, 


EDGAR    ALLAN   POE  171 

and  presently,  following  the  example  of  his  admired 
Coleridge,  enlisted  as  a  private  soldier.  Lowell  relates, 
without  a  definite  authority,  that  Poe  had  already  set 
forth  to  fight  at  Byron's  side  for  the  independence  of 
Greece,  and  that,  having  got  into  trouble  at  St.  Peters- 
burg, he  was  rescued  by  the  American  Consul.  For 
the  sake  of  romance  you  are  willing  to  believe  the 
legend,  and  you  regret  that  fortune  had  not  favoured 
the  brave  so  far  as  to  bring  Poe  into  the  presence  of 
Byron.  But  at  least  it  is  true  that  Poe  served  three 
years  in  the  United  States  Army,  meanwhile,  like 
Cumberbatch,  cultivating  the  Muses.  Then  it  was 
that  Allan  performed  his  last  service.  Having  found 
a  substitute,  he  entered  him,  though  already  disqualified 
by  years,  as  a  cadet  at  West  Point.  But  West  Point 
was  as  little  to  his  mind  as  the  barrack,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  a  breach  of  discipline  procured  his  dismissal. 
He  published  his  poems  by  subscription  among  the 
cadets,  and  having  no  more  to  expect  from  his  bene- 
factor, he  determined  upon  the  profession  of  letters. 

His  first  success  was  achieved  (in  1833)  with  The 
MS,  found  in  a  Bottle^  which  won  a  prize  offered  by 
The  Saturday  Visiter.  Henceforth,  with  varying 
fortune,  he  earned  his  living  by  his  pen.  He  wrote 
stories,  satires,  poems ;  his  criticism  became  the  terror 
of  the  incompetent ;  and  since  his  Southern  descent, 
his  genius,  his  reasonable  contempt,  rendered  him 
unpopular  in  the  North,  he  was,  many  years  before 
his  death,  the  best  hated  and  most  highly  respected 
of  his  kind^.   The  one  constant  ambition  of  his  life 


172  STUDIES  IN   FRANKNESS 

— to  start  a  magazine  of  his  own — was  disappointed  ; 
but  alone  of  his  contemporaries  he  captured  a  reputation 
in  Europe,  and  neither  ill-health  nor  misfortune  shook 
for  an  instant  his  legitimate  confidence  in  himself,  his 
determination  to  set  in  their  place  the  pigmies  who 
surrounded  him.  Meanwhile,  his  strange  marriage 
with  Virginia  Clemm,  who  at  the  ceremony  was  not 
yet  fourteen,  and  his  unfailing  devotion  to  his  fragile  wife 
and  her  mother,  disproved  the  boorish  cruelty  where- 
with he  was  so  complacently  charged.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  affection,  requited  yet  unsuccessful,  which 
he  cherished  at  the  end  for  Mrs.  Whitman,  for  "  Annie," 
and  for  Mrs.  Shelton,  does  not  suggest  the  humour  of 
one  who  had  a  strong,  rational  hold  upon  existence. 
But  he  lived  his  own  life,  as  he  died  his  own  death, 
and  it  is  for  the  Gris wolds  to  hold  their  peace  in  the 
presence  of  genius. 

At  least  his  works  remain  to  confute  the  blasphemer, 
and  it  is  certain  that  no  writer  ever  bequeathed  so 
many  examples  to  posterity.  Although  he  went  not 
beyond  the  tradition  of  his  time,  although  he  owed 
something  to  Maturin  and  Mrs.  RadclyfFe,  something 
also,  in  decoration  and  decay,  to  the  romantiques  of 
1830,  he  was  essentially  an  inventor.  He  touched  no 
kind  of  story  without  making  it  a  type  for  all  time. 
Even  The  Narrative  of  Arthur  Gordon  Pym^  which 
you  confess  to  be  tiresome  and  elaborate,  has  been  a 
stimulus  to  a  whole  generation  of  romance-mongers  ; 
and  you  feel,  despite  its  faults,  that  it  displays  a  greater 
verisimilitude,  if  not  a  greater  knowledge,  than  the 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE  173 

best  of  its  successors.  Before  all  things,  Poe  had  the 
faculty  of  detaching  himself  from  the  present  and  of 
imagining  unseen  continents.  With  seamanship, 
science,  erudition,  mysticism,  with  all  the  branches  of 
human  knowledge  he  feigned  an  acquaintance.  He 
tells  you  with  pride  that  The  MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle 
was  written  many  years  before  he  had  seen  the  maps 
of  Mercator  ;  and  you  find  yourself  eagerly  forgiving 
the  amiable  pedantry  of  his  confession. 

But  it  is  in  The  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque 
that  Poe  first  revealed  his  personal  imagination — an 
imagination  rather  of  tone  than  of  incident.  The 
House  of  Usher^  Ligeia,  and  the  rest  surpass  all  other 
stories  in  economy  of  method  and  suggestion.  Death, 
catalepsy,  and  the  supernatural  are  the  material  of  them 
all.  They  know  neither  time  nor  place ;  they  are 
enwrapped  in  an  atmosphere  only  substantial  enough 
to  enclose  phantoms ;  ghostly  castles  frown  upon 
sombre  tarns,  destined  to  engulph  them ;  clouds, 
fantastically  outlined,  chase  one  another  across  a 
spectral  sky ;  ancient  families  totter  to  their  doom, 
overwhelmed  in  misery  and  disease  j  ruined  halls  are 
resplendent  with  red  lanterns  and  perfumed  with 
swinging  censers ;  the  heroine's  hand  is  cold  as 
marble,  marble-cold  also  is  her  forehead,  but  she  is 
learned  in  all  the  sciences,  and  the  castle  library  con- 
tains the  works  of  Caelius  Secundus  Curio  and  Tertul- 
lian.  Everywhere  there  is  a  sombre  splendour,  a  for- 
bidding magnificence.  No  wonder  that  the  dweller 
in  an  English  abbey  shudders  at  "  the  Bedlam  patterns 


174  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

of  the  carpets  of  tufted  gold."  Naught  save  the 
names,  which  are  of  no  country  and  of  no  age,  heightens 
the  colour  of  the  monotone  romance.  Madeleine, 
Berenice,  Ligeia,  Morella,  Eleonora — do  they  not  echo 
the  strangest  harmonies,  and  by  their  beauty  make 
more  horrible  the  cold  tragedy  of  their  deaths  ?  To 
analyse  these  fantasies  closely  is  impossible  ;  you  must 
leave  them  to  the  low,  dim-tinted  atmosphere  wherein 
Poe  has  enveloped  them.  They  are  vague,  fleeting, 
mystical,  perverse — a  sensation  of  tapestry,  whereon 
luminous  figures  wander  hand  in  hand.  Silence  and 
horror  are  their  cult,  and  there  is  not  one  of  these 
ladies  whose  ever-approaching  death  would  not  be 
hastened  by  a  breath  of  reality. 

Ligeia  dwells  in  "a  dim  and  decaying  city  by  the 
Rhine,"  but  who  would  seek  to  discover  her  habitation  ? 
It  were  as  infamous  as  to  search  beneath  a  tropical  sun 
for  "  the  Valley  of  the  Many-coloured  Grass,"  where 
pined  the  hapless  Eleonora.  The  best  of  these  fancies, 
in  truth,  are  rather  poetry  than  prose,  and  it  was  in 
their  prose  that  Poe  perfected  his  artifice  of  refrain.  A 
sonorous  passage  in  Eleonora  is  repeated  with  the  state- 
liest effect,  and  the  horror  of  Silence  is  increased  tenfold 
by  the  oft-recurring  phrase  :  "  And  the  man  trembled  in 
the  solitude,  but  the  night  waned,  and  he  sat  upon  the 
rock."  In  these  grotesque  imaginings  even  laughter 
becomes  a  terror.  At  Sparta,  says  the  monster  of  The 
Assignation^  "the  altar  of  Laughter  survived  all  the 
others,"  and  he  chuckles  at  the  very  point  of  death. 
When,  in  The  Cask  of  Amontillado^  the  last  stone  is 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  175 

fitted  to  Fortunato's  living  tomb,  "  there  came  from 
out  the  niche  a  low  laugh,"  which  might  well  have 
sent  Montresor's  hair  on  end.  Not  even  did  Morella's 
lover  meet  his  doom  with  tears.  "  I  laughed  with  a 
long  and  bitter  laugh,"  he  says,  "  as  I  found  no  trace 
of  the  first  in  the  charnel  where  I  laid  the  second — 
Morella."  But,  worst  of  all,  the  demon  laughs  when 
the  whole  world  is  cursed  to  silence  :  wherefrom  you 
may  deduce  as  sinister  a  theory  of  the  ludicrous  as  you 
please. 

And  then  he  turned  to  another  kind,  and  created  at 
a  breath  M.  Dupin,  that  master  of  insight,  who  proved 
that  the  complex  was  seldom  profound,  and  who  dis- 
covered by  the  natural  transition  from  a  colliding 
fruiterer,  through  street  stones,  stereotomy,  Epicurus, 
and  Dr.  Nicholls,  to  Orion,  that  Chantilly  was  a  very 
little  fellow,  and  would  do  better  for  the  Theatre  des 
Varietes.  Now,  Monsieur  Charles  A.  Dupin  is  of 
good  family — so  much  you  are  ready  to  believe  j  he 
is  also  young — a  statement  you  decline  to  accept  on 
the  word  of  a  creator,  unless,  indeed,  he  be  the 
Wandering  Jew.  But  whatever  his  age  and  breeding, 
he  is  a  master  of  analysis,  and  plays  at  ratiocination  as 
a  boy  plays  with  a  peg-top.  He  knows  by  long  experi- 
ence that  in  pitting  your  intelligence  against  another's 
you  are  sure  to  win  if  you  identify  yourself  with  your 
adversary.  And  when  once  this  principle  is  under- 
stood, it  is  as  easy  as  a  game  of  marbles,  and  more  pro- 
fitable. M.  Dupin  loves  darkness  better  than  light, 
not  because  his  deeds  are  evil,  but  because,  being  a 


176  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

poet  and  a  mathematician,  he  works  better  by  lamp- 
light. Hence  it  is  his  practice  to  live  through  the 
day  by  the  glimmer  of  two  flickering  candles,  and  to 
walk  abroad  at  night  under  the  spell  of  the  gas-lamps. 
But  if  his  work  be  serious,  or  if  he  be  forced  to 
interview  the  doltish  Prefect  of  Police,  then  he  sits  in 
the  dark,  and  silently  pufFs  his  meerschaum. 

The  smallest  indication  was  suflicient  for  him,  and 
while  the  police  fumbled  over  the  murders  in  the  Rue 
Morgue,  arresting  a  harmless  bank-clerk,  he  not  only 
discovered  the  true  culprit,  but  was  convinced  that  the 
culprit's  master  was  a  sailor,  belonging  to  a  Maltese 
vessel.  "  How  was  it  possible  ?  "  asked  his  incredulous 
accomplice,  "  that  you  should  know  the  man  to  be  a 
sailor,  and  belonging  to  a  Maltese  vessel  ? "  "  I  do 
not  know  it,"  said  Dupin.  "  I  am  not  sure  of  it ! 
Here,  however,  is  a  small  piece  of  ribbon,  which  from 
its  form,  and  from  its  greasy  appearance,  has  evidently 
been  used  in  tying  the  hair  in  one  of  those  long  queues 
of  which  sailors  are  so  fond.  Moreover,  this  knot  is 
one  which  few  besides  sailors  can  tie,  and  is  peculiar  to 
the  Maltese."  Imagine  the  joy  of  happening  upon 
this  masterpiece  of  combined  observation  and  analysis, 
in  the  days  before  the  trick  had  not  been  vulgarised 
beyond  recognition  !  And  yet,  despite  this  flash  of 
genius,  M.  Dupin  affected  to  despise  ingenuity,  which 
he  regarded  as  the  cheapest  of  human  qualities ;  and 
he  would  persuade  you  that  all  his  finest  effects  were 
produced  by  pure  reason  !  His  most  daring  deed  was 
done  in  the  Rue  Morgue  :  the  instant  discovery  of  the 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  177 

inhuman  murderer  was  adroitness  itself;  and  the 
advertisement  of  the  recovered  Ourang-Outang  was 
even  more  brilliant.  Unhappily  there  is  a  touch  of 
melodrama  in  the  locked  door,  the  pistol  upon  the 
table,  and  the  extorted  confession.  But  M.  Dupin  is 
seldom  guilty  of  such  an  indiscretion,  and  you  readily 
forgive  him.  A  more  subtle  achievement  was  the 
recovery  of  the  purloined  letter,  for  in  this  exploit  he 

opposed  the  great  Minister  D ,  and  proved  the 

superior  at  all  points.  In  brief,  his  shining  qualities 
are  as  stars  in  the  night,  nor  have  they  been  dimmed  by 
the  flickering  rushlights  of  the  unnumbered  imitators, 
who  mimic  the  tone  of  the  inimitable  Dupin. 

Though  The  Gold  Bug  is  a  masterpiece  of  another 
sort,  it  is  nearly  related  to  The  Purloined  Letter,  It 
displays  the  perfect  logic,  the  complete  lucidity,  the 
mastery  of  analysis,  which  make  M.  Dupin  immortal. 
No  step  in  the  adventure  but  is  foreseen  and  inevitable. 
Never  before  nor  since  has  use  so  admirable  been  made 
of  ciphers  and  buried  treasure.  The  material,  maybe, 
was  not  new,  but  the  treatment,  as  of  a  glorified  prob- 
lem in  mathematics,  was  Poe's  own  invention.  In 
his  hands  the  slightest  incident  ceased  to  be  curious, 
and  became  (so  to  say)  a  link  in  the  chain  of  fate. 
Not  only  was  he  unrivalled  in  the  art  of  construction, 
but  he  touched  the  simplest  theme  with  a  clairvoyant 
intelligence,  which  seemed  at  the  same  moment  to 
combine  and  analyse  the  materials  of  his  story.  Thus, 
also,  the  best  of  his  scientific  parables  convince  the 
imagination,  even  if  they  leave  the  reason  refractory. 

M 


178  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

But  the  purpose  of  these  is  too  obvious,  their  central 
truths  are  too  heavily  w^eighted  w^ith  pretended  docu- 
ments, for  immortality.  It  is  upon  the  grotesque,  the 
horrible,  and  the  ingenious  that  Poe  has  established 
his  reputation.  And  surely  the  author  of  Ligeia^  of 
Silence^  of  William  Wilson^  of  the  Dupin  Cycle,  of  The 
Gold  Bug^  and  of  The  Mask  of  the  Red  Death  need 
not  defend  his  title  to  undying  fame. 

Though  Poe  was  a  maker  of  great  stories,  he  was 
not  a  great  writer.  That  he  might  have  been  is 
possible,  for  none  ever  showed  in  fragments  a  finer 
sense  of  words  ;  that  he  was  not  is  certain.  An 
American  critic  would  excuse  him  upon  the  ground 
that  he  lived  before  Pater,  Flaubert,  and  Arnold. 
Never  was  a  more  preposterous  theory  formulated. 
As  though  the  art  of  prose  were  newly  invented !  The 
English  tongue,  accurate,  noble,  coloured,  is  centuries 
older  than  Pater ;  and  even  in  Poe's  own  time  there 
were  models  worth  the  following.  He  knew  Coleridge 
from  end  to  end,  and  did  not  profit  by  his  example. 
So  conscious  is  he  of  style  in  others,  that  he  condemns 
the  Latinity  of  Lamb,  but  he  rarely  knits  his  own 
sentences  to  perfection.  The  best  he  wraps  round 
with  coils  of  useless  string,  and  he  is  not  incapable 
of  striking  false  notes  upon  the  Early-Victorian  drum. 
He  shocks  you,  for  instance,  by  telling  you  that 
William  Wilson  at  Oxford  "vied  in  profuseness 
of  expenditure  with  the  haughtiest  heirs  of  the 
wealthiest  earldoms  in  Great  Britain" — a  sentence 
equally  infamous  whether  it  appeal  to  the  ear  or  to 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  179 

the  brain.  Egeaus,  again,  the  ghoulish  lover  of 
Berenice,  boasts,  with  a  pride  which  Mrs.  RadclyfFe 
might  envy,  that  "there  are  no  towers  in  the  land 
more  time-honoured  than  my  gloomy,  grey,  hereditary 
halls."  This  is  fustian,  and  you  regret  it  the  more 
because  in  construction,  in  idea,  Poe  was  seldom  at 
fault.  The  opening  of  his  stories  is  commonly  perfect. 
How  could  you  better  the  first  page  of  The  House  of 
Ushery  whose  weird  effect  is  attained  throughout  by 
the  simplest  means  ?  Another  writer  would  take  five 
pages  to  explain  what  Poe  has  suggested  in  the  first 
five  lines  of  The  Oval  Portrait ;  and  to  how  many  has 
this  rejection  of  all  save  the  essential  been  a  noble 
example  ?  But  Poe,  writing  on  the  impulse  of  a 
whim,  let  the  style  which  he  knew  elude  his  grasp, 
and  if  his  carelessness  cast  a  shadow  upon  his  true 
masterpieces,  it  reduces  the  several  volumes  of  properly 
forgotten  fentasies  to  the  level  of  journalism. 

The  criticism  of  Poe  inaugurated  a  new  era,  a  new 
cult  of  taste  and  beauty.  Whether  in  theory  or  in 
practice  he  was  ahead  not  only  of  his  time,  but  of  all 
time.  That  same  keen  intelligence  which  created 
M.  Dupin,  tore  to  pieces  the  prevailing  superstitions 
and  disclosed  in  a  few  pages  the  true  qualities  of 
literature.  Beauty  is  his  cult  ;  poetry  for  him  is  ^ 
"the  rhythmical  creation  of  beauty."  He  is  neither 
preacher  nor  historian.  Being  an  artist,  he  esteems 
facts  as  lightly  as  morals.  Art,  he  says,  has  "no 
concern  whatever  either  with  Duty  or  with  Truth." 
A  poem  is  written  solely  for  the  poem's  sake.     "  Per- 


^8p  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

severance," again, "  is  one  thing,  genius  quite  another ;" 
and  the  public  has  as  little  to  do  with  the  industry  as 
with  the  inspiration  of  the  artist.  To  us  who  have 
lived  through  the  dark  age  of  naturalism  his  passage 
upon  Truth  rings  like  a  prophecy :  "  The  demands 
of  Truth,"  he  writes  in  The  Poetic  Principle^  ''  are 
severe ;  she  has  no  sympathy  with  the  myrtles.  All 
that  which  is  so  indispensable  in  Song,  is  precisely  all 
that  with  which  she  has  nothing  whatever  to  do.  It 
is  but  making  her  a  flaunting  paradox  to  wreath  her 
in  gems  and  flowers."  Even  more  precise  and  bitter 
is  his  epigrammatic  indictment  of  Realism.  "The 
defenders  of  this  pitiable  stufF" — you  will  find  the 
lines  in  Marginalia — "  uphold  it  on  the  ground  of  its 
truthfulness.  Taking  the  thesis  into  question,  the 
truthfulness  is  the  one  overwhelming  defect.  An 
original  idea  that — to  laud  the  accuracy  with  which 
the  stone  is  hurled  that  knocks  us  in  the  head.  A 
little  less  accuracy  might  have  left  us  more  brains. 
And  here  are  critics  absolutely  commending  the  truth- 
fulness with  which  only  the  disagreeable  is  conveyed  ! 
In  my  view,  if  an  artist  must  paint  decayed  cheeses, 
his  merit  will  lie  in  their  looking  as  Httle  like  decayed 
cheeses  as  possible."  And  that  was  written  twenty  R 
years  before  the  advent  of  Zola ! 

In  The  Philosophy  of  Composition^  moreover,  he  ex- 
plains, what  should  never  have  needed  explanation, 
that  a  work  of  art  is  the  result  not  of  accident  but  of 
a  reasoned  artifice ;  and  he  illustrates  his  thesis  by  a 
whimsical,  far-fetched  analysis  of  his  own  Raven.     He 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  iBi 

treats  the  poem  with  the  same  impartial  intelligence 
which  M.  Dupin  would  have  brought  to  the  detection 
of  a  murderer  or  the  discovery  of  a  missing  trinket. 
He  was,  in  truth,  the  Dupin  of  Criticism.  For  he 
looked,  with  his  keen  eye  and  rapid  brain,  through  the 
innumerable  follies  wherewith  literature  was  obscured, 
and  he  rejected  the  false  hypotheses  as  scornfully  as 
M.  Dupin  set  aside  the  imbecilities  of  the  Prefect.  As 
a  censor  of  his  contemporaries,  he  dipped  his  pen  in 
gall.  His  sense  of  honour  knew  neither  civility  nor 
favouritism.  Alone  among  critics  he  has  come  forth 
with  a  chivalrous  defence  of  that  craft,  in  which  he 
took  a  fierce  and  lawful  pride.  He  was  no  adulator 
ready-made  to  serve  a  Society  of  Authors  :  he  was  a 
judge,  condemning  the  guilty  with  an  honourable 
severity.  "When  we  attend  less  to  authority,"  he 
wrote,  "  and  more  to  principles,  when  we  look  less  at 
merit  and  more  at  demerit,  we  shall  be  better  critics 
than  we  are."  Is  that  not  enough  to  make  the 
Popular  Novelist  turn  green  with  fury,  especially 
since  it  is  the  deliberate  utterance  of  a  man  whose 
example  has  furnished  forth  a  whole  library  of  popular 
novels  ?  Twice  he  quotes  the  parable  of  the  critic 
who  "  presented  to  Apollo  a  severe  censure  upon  an 
excellent  poem.  The  god  asked  him  for  the  beauties 
of  the  work.  He  replied  that  he  only  troubled  himself 
about  the  errors.  Apollo  presented  him  with  a  sack 
of  unwinnowed  wheat,  and  bade  him  pick  out  the  chafF 
for  his  pains."  Now,  this  is  the  critic's  severest 
condemnation,  and  yet  Poe  defends  his  trade  with  an 


i82  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

honourable  loyalty  :  he  is  not  sure,  says  he,  that  the 
god  was  in  the  right. 

Being  a  severe  judge,  he  was  generously  misunder- 
stood. Longfellow  was  magnanimous  enough  to 
attribute  "  the  harshness  of  his  criticism  to  the  irrita- 
tion of  a  sensitive  nature,  chafed  by  some  indefinite 
sense  of  wrong."  Thus  the  illiterate  are  wont  to 
ascribe  the  lightest  censure  to  a  critic's  envy.  And 
they  do  not  see,  neither  Longfellow  nor  the  illiterate, 
that  they  are  bringing  superfluous  charges  of  bad  faith. 
Is  it  possible  that  Longfellow  could  not  imagine  the 
necessity  of  censure  ?  Is  it  possible  that  he,  like  the 
bleating  lambs  of  fiction,  believed  that  criticism  is 
written,  not  for  its  own  sake,  but  for  the  voidance  of 
gall  ?  If  such  were  his  creed,  if  he,  being  a  critic, 
would  never  have  written  a  line  unblotted  by  hatred 
or  irritation,  it  is  fortunate  that  he  did  not  lapse  from 
his  devotion  to  poetry.  But  Poe  was  not  always 
harsh,  and  when  he  used  the  scourge,  he  used  it  in 
defence  of  his  craft.  It  was  his  misfortune  to  review 
his  contemporaries  ;  and  they,  though  they  resented 
his  reproach,  have  already  justified  his  severity  by 
crawling,  one  and  all,  into  oblivion.  A  bold  judgment, 
indeed,  would  suppress  these  innumerable  pages  of 
books  reviewed — pages  which  served  their  turn  at 
the  moment,  and  which  dimly  reflect  the  brilliant  in- 
sight of  Marginalia,  But  when  Poe  encountered  a 
master,  he  was  eager  in  appreciation.  His  praise  of 
Alfred  Tennyson  was  as  generous  as  it  was  wise. 
*'  In   perfect  sincerity,"  he  wrote,  "  I  regard  him  as 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE  183 

the  noblest  poet  that  ever  lived."  And,  again, 
remembering  that  this  was  written  in  1843,  7^^ 
recognise  in  Poe  the  gift  of  prophecy. 

But  to  complete  the  cycle  of  his  accomplishments 
he  was  also  a  poet,  and  it  is  as  a  poet  that  he  wears  the 
greenest  bays.  Here  his  practice  coincided  accurately 
with  his  theory.  He  believed  that  a  long  poem  was 
a  contradiction  in  terms,  and  he  only  erred  once 
against  the  light  when  he  called  Eureka.^  a  tedious 
treatise  upon  all  things  and  nothing,  "  a  prose  poem." 
In  his  eyes  the  sole  aim  of  poetry  was  beauty,  and 
such  beauty  as  should  touch  the  ear  rather  than  the 
brain.  His  musical  art  eludes  analysis,  and  he 
esteemed  it  great  in  proportion  as  it  receded  from  the 
hard  shapes  and  harder  truths  of  life.  Of  him  it 
might  be  said  truly  that  "  he  seemed  to  see  with  his 
ear."  You  do  not  question  Annabel  Lee  and  Vlalume, 
You  do  not  attempt  to  drag  a  common  meaning  from 
their  gossamer  loveliness.  You  listen  to  their  refrains 
and  repeated  cadences  ;  you  delight  in  their  rippling 
sound  and  subtle  variations  ;  and  you  are  content  to 
find  yourself  in  the  presence  of  an  art  which,  like 
music,  does  not  represent,  but  merely  presents,  an 
emotion.  And  because  Poe  acknowledged  the  artifice 
of  his  poetry,  some  have  denied  him  imagination. 
But  imagination  most  clearly  manifests  herself  in 
artistic  expression  ;  and  has  naught  in  common  with 
the  rhymester's  rolling  eye  and  untutored  fancy. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Poe's   multiform  genius 
should    have    proved    a     dominant    influence    upon 


i84  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

European  literature.  Not  only  was  he  a  sombre  light 
to  the  decadence  ;  not  only  was  he  a  guiding  flame  in 
the  pathway  of  the  mystics  ;  he  also  revived  the  novel 
of  adventure  and  lost  treasure,  of  the  South  Seas  and 
of  Captain  Kidd.  The  atrocities  which  have  been 
committed  in  the  name  of  his  Dupin  are  Hke  the  sands 
for  number ;  and  the  detective  of  fact,  as  of  romance, 
has  attempted  to  model  himself  upon  this  miracle  of 
intelligence.  Thus  he  has  been  an  example  to  both 
houses — to  M.  Huysmans,  who  has  emulated  his  erudi- 
tion, and  to  Gaboriau,  who  has  cheapened  his  mystery. 
It  is  his  unique  distinction  to  have  anticipated  even  the 
trivialities  of  life.  His  title.  The  Man  that  Was  Used 
up^  has  let  in  upon  us  the  legion  of  imbeciles  who  did 
or  didn't,  who  would  or  wouldn't.  He  it  was,  too,  that 
imagined  the  philosopher  who,  in  the  vanity  of  his  heart, 
should  spell  his  god  with  a  little  g  !  By  a  strange 
accident  his  influence  came  to  us,  not  from  America 
but  from  France.  No  sooner  was  The  Murders  in  the 
Rue  Morgue  published  in  America,  than  it  appeared  as 
a  feuilleton  in  le  Commerce^  and  in  1 846  was  printed  a 
volume  of  Contes^  translated  by  Isabelle  Meunier. 
Ten  years  later  Baudelaire  began  the  brilliant  series 
of  translations,  which  added  the  glory  of  Poe  to 
French  literature.  That  Poe  gained  in  the  trans- 
ference there  is  no  doubt  :  the  looseness  of  his  style 
was  tightened  in  the  distinguished  prose  of  Baudelaire; 
and  henceforth  Poe  was  free  to  shape  the  literary  future 
of  France.  So  it  was  his  example  that  moulded  the  conte 
to  its  ultimate  completion.  His  talents  of  compression 
and  facile  exposition,  his  gift  of  building  up  a  situation  in 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  185 

a  hundred  words,  were  imitated  by  the  army  of  writers 
who  first  perfected  the  short  story,  and  then  sent  it 
across  the  Channel.  Nor  is  Baudelaire  the  only  poet 
who  has  turned  Poe  into  French.  M.  Stephane 
Mallarme,  also,  has  proved  his  sympathy  with  the 
author  of  The  Raven  in  a  set  of  matchless  translations. 
He  has  changed  the  verse  of  Poe  into  a  rhythmical 
prose,  and  withal  he  has  kept  so  close  to  the  original 
that  the  prose  echoes  not  only  the  phrase  but  the 
cadence  of  the  verse.  And  from  France  Poe  pene- 
trated every  country  in  Europe.  He  is  known  and 
read  in  those  remote  corners  which  he  described,  yet 
never  saw.  He  is  as  familiar  in  Spain  as  in  Scandinavia, 
and  The  Raven  has  been  translated  "direct  from 
English  "  in  far-ofF  Valparaiso. 

And  here  is  the  final  contrast  of  his  life.  The 
prophet  of  silence  and  seclusion  is  blown  to  the  four 
winds  of  heaven.  But  he  has  conquered  glory  with- 
out stooping  one  inch  from  his  proper  attitude  of 
aristocracy.  He  is  still  as  exclusive  and  morose  as  his 
stories.  Between  him  and  his  fantasies  there  is  no 
discord.  You  imagine  him  always  stern-faced  and 
habited  in  black,  with  Virginia  Clemm  at  his  side, 
Virginia  shadowy  as  Ligeia,  amiable  as  the  mild 
Eleonora  in  the  Valley  of  the  Many-coloured  Grass. 
He  dwelt  in  mid-America,  and  he  was  yet  in  fairy- 
land. Though  the  squalor  of  penury  and  the 
magazines  gave  him  neither  "  ancestral  hall "  nor 
"  moss-grown  abbey,"  he  lived  and  died  enclosed 
within  the  iny)regnable  castle  of  his  mind. 


LUCIAN 
I 


LUCIAN* 
I 

IT  is  a  commonplace  of  criticism  that  Lucian  was 
the  first  of  the  moderns,  but  in  truth  he  is  near 
to  our  time,  because  of  all  the  ancients  he  is  nearest  to 
his  own.  He  was  of  those  who  made  the  discovery 
that  there  is  material  for  literature  in  the  debased  and 
various  life  of  every  day — that  to  the  seeing  eye  the 
individual  is  more  wonderful  in  colour  and  complexity 
than  the  severely  simple  abstraction  of  the  poets.  He 
replaced  the  tradition,  respected  of  his  fathers,  by  an 
observation  more  vivid  and  less  pedantic  than  the  note- 
book of  the  naturalist.  He  set  the  world  in  the  dry 
light  of  truth,  and  since  the  vanity  of  mankind  is  a 
constant  factor  throughout  the  ages,  there  is  scarce  a 
page  of  Lucian's  writing  that  wears  the  faded  air  of 
antiquity.  His  'personages  are  as  familiar  to-day  as 
they  were  in  the  second  century,  because,  with  his 
pitiless  determination  to  unravel  the  tangled  skein  of 
human  folly,  he  never  blinded  his  vision  to  their  true 

*  Certaine  Select  Dialogues  of  Lucian  together  with  his  true 
Historic,  translated  from  the  Greeke  into  English  by  Mr^ 
Francis  Hickes.    Printed  by  William  Turner.    1634. 


190  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

qualities.  And  the  multiplicity  of  his  interest  is  as 
fresh  as  his  penetration.  Nothing  came  amiss  to  his 
eager  curiosity.  For  the  first  time  in  the  history  of 
literature  (with  the  doubtful  exception  of  Cicero)  we 
encounter  a  writer  whose  ceaseless  activity  includes 
the  world.  While  others  had  declared  themselves 
poets,  historians,  philosophers,  Lucian  comes  forth  as 
a  man  of  letters.  Had  he  lived  to-day,  he  would  have 
edited  a  newspaper,  written  leading  articles,  and  kept 
his  name  ever  before  the  public  in  the  magazines. 
For  he  possessed  the  qualities,  if  he  avoided  the 
defects,  of  the  journalist.  His  phrase  had  not  been 
worn  by  constant  use  to  imbecility ;  his  sentences 
were  not  marred  by  the  association  of  commonness  ; 
his  style  was  still  his  own  and  fit  for  the  expression  of 
a  personal  view.  But  he  noted  such  types  and 
incidents  as  make  an  immediate,  if  perennial,  appeal, 
and  to  study  him  is  to  be  convinced  that  literature 
and  journalism  are  not  necessarily  divorced. 

The  profession  was  new,  and  with  the  joy  of  the 
innovator  Lucian  was  never  tired  of  inventing  new 
genres.  Romance,^ criticism,  satire — he  mastered  them 
all.  In  Toxaris  and  The  Ass^  if  indeed  that  work 
may  be  attributed  to  him,  he  proved  with  what 
delicacy  and  restraint  he  could  handle  the  story.  His 
hapless  apprenticeship  to  a  sculptor  gave  him  the 
taste  and  feeling  for  art  which  he  turned  to  so  admir- 
able an  account.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  first  of  the  art 
critics,  and  he  pursued  the  craft  with  an  easy  uncon- 
sciousness of  the  heritage  he  bequeathed  to  the  world. 


LUCIAN  191 

Though  he  is  silent  concerning  the  technical  practice 
of  the  Greeks ;  though  he  leaves  us  in  profound 
ignorance  of  the  art  of  Zeuxis,  whose  secrets  he  might 
have  revealed  had  he  been  less  a  man  of  letters,  he 
found  in  painting  and  sculpture  an  opportunity  for 
elegance  of  phrase,  and  we  would  forgive  a  thousand 
shortcomings  for  such  inspirations  of  beauty  as  the 
smile  of  Sosandra :  ro  ftciSiajua  (refivov  koX  XeXtiOog, 
In  literary  criticism  he  was  on  more  familiar  ground, 
yet  here  also  he  leaves  the  past  behind.  His  knowledge 
of  Greek  poetry  was  profound  ;  Homer  he  had  by 
heart ;  and  on  every  page  he  proves  his  sympathies  by 
covert  allusion  or  precise  quotation.  His  treatise  con- 
cerning the  writing  of  history  {Uiog  Set  [(rropiav 
(Tvyypat^iLv)  preserves  its  force  irresistible  after  seven- 
teen centuries,  nor  has  the  wisdom  of  the  ages  im- 
peached or  modified  this  lucid  argument.  With  a 
modest  wit  he  compares  himself  to  Diogenes,  who, 
when  he  saw  his  fellow  citizens  busied  with  the  pre- 
parations of  war,  gathered  his  skirts  about  him  and  fell 
to  rolling  his  tub  up  and  down.  So  Lucian,  un- 
ambitious of  writing  history,  sheltered  himself  from 
*'the  waves  and  the  smoke,"  and  was  content  to 
provide  others  with  the  best  of  good  counsel.  Yet 
such  is  the  irony  of  accident  that,  as  Lucian's  criti- 
cism has  outlived  the  masterpieces  of  Zeuxis,  so  the 
historians  have  snatched  an  immortality  from  his 
censure  ;  and  let  it  be  remembered  for  his  glory  that 
he  used  Thucydides  as  a  whip  wherewith  to  beat 
impostors. 


192  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

But  matters    of    so  high  import  did    not   always 
engross   his    humour,    and    in    The    Illiterate    Book- 
buyer     (II/ooc    Tov    airai^iVTOv     kol     iroXXa    j5ij5Xla 
wvovfitvov)  he  satirises  a  fashion  of  the  hours  and  of 
all  time  with  a  courage  and  brutality  which  tear  the 
heart  out  of  truth.     How  intimately  does  he  realise 
his  victim  !     And  how  familiar  is  this  same  victim  in 
his  modern  shape  !     You    know  the  very  streets  he 
haunts  ;  you  know  the  very  shops  wherein  he  is  wont 
to  acquire  his  foolish  treasures  ;  you  recognise  that  not 
by  a  single  trait  has  Lucian  dishonoured  his  model. 
In  yet  another  strange  instance  Lucian  anticipated  the 
journalist  of  to-day.     Though  his  disciples  know  it 
not,  he  invented  the  interview.     In  that  famous  visit 
to  the  Elysian  Fields,  which  is  a  purple  patch  upon 
his  masterpiece,  The  True  History^  he  "went  to  talk 
with  Homer   the  poet,  our  leisure    serving    us    both 
well,"  and  he  put  precisely  those  questions  which  the 
modern   hack,   note-book   in   hand,   would    seek    to 
resolve.      First,   remembering   .the   seven    cities,   he 
would  know  of  Homer  what  fatherland  claimed  him, 
and  when  the  poet  "  said  indeed  he  was  a  Babylonian, 
and  among  his  own  countrymen  not  called  Homer  but 
Tigranes,"  Lucian  straightly  "questioned  him  about 
those  verses  in  his  books  that  are  disallowed  as  not  of 
his  making  j "  whereto  Homer  replied  with  a  proper 
condemnation  of  Zenodotus  and  Aristarchus.     And 
you  wonder  whether  Lucian  is  chastising  his  contem- 
poraries or  looking  with  the  eye  of  a  prophet  into  the 
future. 


LUCIAN  193 

But  even  more  remarkable  than  his  many-coloured 
interest  is  Lucian's  understanding.  He  was,  so  to 
say,  a  perfect  intelligence  thrown  by  accident  into  an 
age  of  superstition  and  credulity.  It  is  not  only  that 
he  knew  all  things :  he  saw  all  things  in  their  right 
shape.  If  the  Pagan  world  had  never  before  been 
conscious  of  itself,  it  had  no  excuse  to  harbour  illusions 
after  his  coming.  Mr.  Pater  speaks  of  the  intellectual 
light  he  turned  upon  dim  places,  and  truly  no  corner 
of  life  escaped  the  gleam  of  his  lantern.  Gods,  philo- 
sophers, necromancers  yielded  up  their  secrets  to  his 
inquiry.  With  pitiless  logic  he  criticised  their  ex- 
travagance and  pretension  ;  and,  actively  anticipating 
the  spirit  of  modern  science,  he  accepted  no  fact,  he. 
subscribed  to  no  theory,  which  he  had  not  examined 
with  a  cold  impartiality.  Indeed,  he  was  scepticism 
in  human  shape,  but  as  the  weapon  of  his  destruction 
is  always  raillery,  as  he  never  takes  either  himself  or 
his  victims  with  exaggerated  seriousness,  you  may 
delight  in  his  attack,  even  though  you  care  not  which 
side  wins  the  battle.  His  wit  was  as  mordant  as 
Heine's  own — is  it  fantastical  to  suggest  that  Lucian 
too  carried  Hebrew  blood  in  his  veins  ? — yet  when  the 
onslaught  is  most  unsparing  he  is  still  joyous.  For  a 
gay  contempt,  not  a  bitter  hatred,  is  the  note  of  his 
satire.  And  for  the  very  reason  that  his  scepticism 
was  felt,  that  it  sprang  from  a  close  intimacy  with  the 
follies  of  his  own  time,  so  it  is  fresh  and  famihar  to  an 
age  that  knows  not  Zeus.  Not  even  the  Dialogues 
of  the  Gods  are  out   of  date,  for   if  we  no  longer 

N 


194         STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

reverence  Olympus  we  still  blink  our  eyes  at  the  flash 
of  ridicule.  And  might  not  the  Philopseudes^  that 
masterly  analysis  of  ghostly  terrors,  have  been  written 
yesterday  ? 

And  thus  we  arrive  at  Lucian's  weakness.  In  spite 
of  its  brilliance  and  flippancy,  his  scepticism  is  at 
times  over-intelligent.  So  easy  is  it  to  extract  sport 
from  popular  theology,  that  his  ridicule  of  the  Gods, 
exquisitely  as  it  is  expressed,  sometimes  suggests  the 
odious  pleasantry  of  the  modern  freethinker.  His 
good  sense  baflles  you  by  its  infallibility ;  his  sanity 
is  so  magnificently  beyond  question,  that  you  pray 
for  an  interlude  of  unreason.  The  sprightliness  of 
his  wit,  the  alertness  of  his  fancy,  mitigate  the  per- 
petual rightness  of  his  judgment.  But  it  must  be 
confessed  that  for  all  his  delicate  sense  of  ridicule  he 
cherished  a  misguided  admiration  of  the  truth.  If 
only  he  had  understood  the  joy  of  self-deception,  if 
only  he  had  realised  more  often  (as  he  realised  in 
his  stories)  the  delight  of  throwing  probability  to 
the  winds,  we  had  regarded  him  with  a  more  con- 
stant affection.  His  capital  defect  sprang  from  a 
lack  of  the  full-blooded  humour  which  should  at 
times  have  led  him  into  error.  And  yet  by  an  irony 
it  was  this  very  love  of  truth  which  suggested  The 
True  History^  that  enduring  masterpiece  of  phantasy. 
Setting  out  to  prove  his  hatred  of  other  men's  lies,  he 
shows  himself  on  the  road  the  greatest  liar  of  them  all. 
"The  father  and  founder  of  all  this  foolery  was 
Homer's  Ulysses : "  thus  he  writes  in  his  preface,  con- 


LUCIAN  195 

fessing  that  in  a  spirit  of  emulation  he  "  turned  his  style 
to  publish  untruths,"  but  with  an  honester  mind,  "  for 
this  one  thing  I  confidently  pronounce  for  a  truth, 
that  I  lie." 

Such  is  the  spirit  of  the  work,  nor  is  there 
the  smallest  doubt  that  Lucian,  once  embarked  upon 
his  voyage,  slipped  from  his  ideal,  to  enjoy  the  lying 
for  its  own  sake.  If  The  True  History  fails  as  a 
parody,  that  is  because  we  care  not  a  jot  for  Ctesias, 
lambulus  and  the  rest,  at  whom  the  satire  is  levelled. 
Its  fascination,  in  fact,  is  due  to  those  same  qualities 
which,  in  others,  its  author  affected  to  despise.  The 
facile  variety  of  its  invention  can  scarce  be  matched  in 
literature,  and  the  lies  are  told  with  so  delightful  an 
unconcern,  that  belief  is  never  difficult.  Nor  does  the 
narrative  ever  flag.  It  ends  at  the  same  high  level  of 
felsehood  in  which  it  has  its  beginning.  And  the 
credibility  is  increased  by  the  harmonious  consistency 
of  each  separate  lie.  At  the  outset  the  traveller  dis- 
covers a  river  of  wine,  and  forthwith  travels  up  stream 
to  find  the  source,  and  "  when  we  were  come  to  the 
head"  (to  quote  Hickes'  translation),  "no  spring  at  all 
appeared,  but  mighty  vine-trees  of  infinite  number, 
which  from  their  roots  distilled  pure  wine,  which 
made  the  river  run  so  abundantly."  So  conclusive  is 
the  explanation,  that  you  only  would  have  wondered 
had  the  stream  been  of  water.  And  how  admirable  is 
the  added  touch  that  he  who  ate  fish  from  the  river  was 
made  drunk  !  Then  by  a  pleasant  gradation  you  are 
carried  on  from  the  Hippogypians,  or  the   Riders  of 


196  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Vultures,  every  feather  in  whose  wing  is  bigger  and 
longer  than  the  mast  of  a  tall  ship,  from  the  fleas  as  large 
as  twelve  elephants,  to  those  spiders  of  mighty  bigness, 
every  one  of  which  exceeded  in  size  an  isle  of  the 
Cyclades.  "  These  were  appointed  to  spin  a  web  in 
the  air  between  the  Moon  and  the  Morning  Star, 
which  was  done  in  an  instant,  and  made  a  plain  cham- 
paign, upon  which  the  foot  forces  were  planted." 

Truly  a  very  Colossus  of  falsehood,  but  Lucian's 
ingenuity  is  inexhausted  and  inexhaustible,  and  the 
mighty  whale  is  his  masterpiece  of  impudence.  For 
he  "  contained  in  greatness  fifteen  hundred  furlongs  "  ; 
his  teeth  were  taller  than  beech-trees,  and  when  he 
swallowed  the  travellers,  he  showed  himself  so  far 
superior  to  Jonah's  fish,  that  ship  and  all  sailed  down 
his  throat,  and  happily  he  caught  not  the  pigmy 
shallop  between  his  chops.  And  the  geographical 
divisions  of  the  whale's  belly,  and  Lucian's  adven- 
tures therein,  are  they  not  set  down  with  circum- 
stantial verity  ?  Then  there  is  the  episode  of  the 
frozen  ship,  and  the  sea  of  milk,  with  its  well-pressed 
cheese  for  an  island,  which  reminds  one  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan madrigal :  ''  If  there  were  O  an  Hellespont  of 
Cream."  Moreover,  the  verisimilitude  is  enhanced  by 
a  scrupulously  simple  style.  No  sooner  is  the  preface 
concerning  lying  at  an  end  than  Lucian  lapses  into 
pure  narrative.  A  wealth  of  minutely  considered 
detail  gives  an  air  of  reality  to  the  most  monstrous 
impossibility  ;  the  smallest  facts  are  explicitly  divulged  -, 
the  remote  accessories  described  with  order  and  im- 


LUCIAN  197 

pressiveness  j  so  that  the  wildest  invention  appears 
plausible,  even  inevitable,  and  you  know  that  you  are 
in  company  with  the  very  genius  of  falsehood.  Nor 
does  this  wild  diversity  of  invention  suggest  romance. 
It  is  still  classic  in  style  and  form  ;  not  a  phrase  nor 
a  word  is  lost,  and  expression,  as  always  in  the  Classics, 
is  reduced  to  its  lowest  terms. 

But  when  the  travellers  reach  the  Islands  of  the 
Blessed,  the  style  takes  on  a  colour  and  a  beauty 
which  it  knew  not  before.  A  fragrant  air  breathed 
upon  them,  as  of  "roses,  daffodils,  gillyflowers, 
lilies,  violets,  myrtles,  bays,  and  blossoms  of  vines." 
Happy  also  was  the  Isle  to  look  upon,  evBa  ^ri 
KOI  Kadeu)pu)iuL£v  Xi/uEvag  re  noWovg  zrept  iratrav 
afcXvoTOVc  icai  juieyakovg,  iroTafiovg  ts  diavyhg 
l^iovrag  ripe/xa  eg  rrjv  OaXarrav'  ert  ^e  XufXMvag 
KoX  vXag  KOL  opvea  fiovrrLKCLy  ra  filv  lin  rtjv  rfiovtjv 
^covTOj  iroXXa  de  koX  ctfi  rwv  KXa^tjv'  arip  re  Kovtjiog 
KOI  svTTVOvg  TrfpUKt)(yTO  rrjv  \(l)pav  :  "  a  still  and 
gentle  air  compassing  the  whole  country."  Where 
will  you  find  a  more  vivid  expression  of  serenity  and 
delight  ?  or  where  match  "  the  melody  of  the 
branches,  like  the  sound  of  wind  instruments  in  a 
solitary  place "  (otTro  tCjv  kXo^wv  Kivovfi^vtjv  Tspirvd 
Kal  (Twexifi  fiiXi)  a'n'e<TvpiZeTO  soiKora  roig  en  Ipripiag 
avXyjinaai  tCjv  irXayi^v  avXCjv)  ?  And  when  the 
splendour  of  the  city  breaks  upon  you,  with  its 
smaragdus,  its  cinnamon-tree,  its  amethyst,  ivory  and 
beryl,  the  rich  babarity  suggests  Solomon's  Temple,  or 
the  City  of  the  Revelation.     Its  inhabitants  are  the 


198  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

occasion  of  infinite  jesting,  and  again  and  again  does 
Lucian  satirise  the  philosophers,  his  dearest  foes. 
Socrates  was  in  danger  of  being  thrust  forth  by 
Rhadamanthus,  i]v  ^Xuapi?  koI  jmrj  eOiXy  a(pe\g  r»)i^ 
elpojvdav  evojxeXcrBaiy  while  as  for  Diogenes  the  Sino- 
pean,  so  profoundly  was  he  changed  from  his  old 
estate,  that  he  had  married  Lais  the  Harlot. 

The  journey  to  Hell  is  another  excuse  to  gird  at  the 
historians.  The  severest  torments  were  inflicted,  says 
Lucian,  upon  Ctesias  the  Cnidian,  Herodotus  and 
many  others,  which  the  writer  beholding  "  was  put  in 
great  hopes  that  I  should  never  have  anything  to  do 
there,  for  I  do  not  know  that  ever  I  spake  any  un- 
truth in  my  life."  And  yet  with  all  his  irony,  all  his 
scorn,  Lucian  has  ever  a  side-glance  at  literature. 
The  verse  of  Homer  is  constantly  upon  his  lips,  and  it 
is  from  Homer  that  the  gods  take  their  ditties  in  the 
Elysian  fields.  Again,  when  the  traveller  visits  the 
city  of  Nephelococcygia,  it  is  but  to  think  upon  the 
poet  Aristophanes,  "  how  wise  a  man  he  was,  and  how 
true  a  reporter,  and  how  little  cause  there  is  to  ques- 
tion his  fidelity  for  what  he  hath  written." 

Such  is  the  work  which,  itself  a  masterpiece,  has 
been  a  pattern  and  an  exemplar  unto  others.  If 
Utopia  and  its  unnumbered  rivals  derive  from  Plato, 
there  is  not  a  single  Imaginary  Traveller  that  is  not 
modelled  upon  Lucian.  The  True  History  was,  in 
effect,  the  ancestor  of  a  very  full  literature.  Not  only 
was  its  framework  borrowed,  not  only  was  its  habit  of 
fantastic  names  piously  imitated,  but  the  disciples,  like 


LUCIAN  199 

the  master,  turned  their  voyages  to  the  purpose  of 
satire.     It  was  Rabelais,  his  speech  emboldened  by  the 
frankness  of  his  master,  who  made  the  first  adaptation, 
for,  while  Epistemon's  descent  into  Hell  was  certainly 
suggested  by  Lucian,  Pantagruel's  voyage  is  an  ample 
travesty  of    The  True  History ;    and  Lanterland,   the 
home  of  the  Lychnobii,  is  but  Lychnopolis,  Lucian's 
own  City  of  Lights.     The  seventeenth  century  dis- 
covered another   imitator   in    Cyrano   de    Bergerac, 
whose  tepid  Voyage  dans  la  Lune  is  interesting  merely 
because  it  is  a  link  in  the  chain  that  unites  Lucian 
with  Swift.     Yet  the  book  had  an  immense   popu- 
larity, and  Cyrano's  biographer  has  naught  to  say  of 
the  original  traveller,  save  that  he  told  his  story  "  avec 
beaucoup   moins   de   vraisemblance   et   de   gentillesse 
d'imagination  que  M.  de  Bergerac."     An  astounding 
judgment  surely,  which  time  has  already  reversed.  And 
then  came  Gulliver'* 5  Travels^  incomparably  the  greatest 
descendant  of  The  True  History,     To  what  excellent 
purpose  Swift  followed  the  lead  of  Lucian  is  proved 
alike  by  the  amazing  probability  of  his  narrative  and 
the  cruelty  of  his  satire.     Like  Lucian,  he  professed  an 
unveiled  contempt  for  philosophers  and  mathematicians; 
unlike   Lucian,  he  made  his  imaginary  journey  the 
occasion  for  a  fierce  satire  upon  kings  and  politicians. 
But  so  masterly  is  the  narrative,  so  convincing  the 
reality   of  Lilliput   and    Brobdingnag,   that  Gulliver 
retains  its   hold   upon   our   imagination,  though   the 
meaning  of  its  satire  is  long  since  blunted.     Swift's 
work  came  to  astonish  the  world  in  1727,  and  some 


200  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

fourteen  years  later  in  the  century  Holberg  amazed 
the  wits  of  Denmark  with  a  satire  cast  in  Lucian's 
mould.  Nicolat  Kllmii  Iter  Subterraneum — thus  ran 
the  title ;  and  from  Latin  the  book  was  translated  into 
every  known  tongue.  The  city  of  walking  trees,  the 
home  of  the  Potuans,  and  many  another  invention,  prove 
Holberg's  debt  to  the  author  of  The  True  History, 
Hereafter  unnumbered  Spaniards  followed  in  the  beaten 
track,  while,  though  Fielding's  Journey  to  the  Next 
World  is  eclipsed  by  his  novels,  it  still  shows  him  a 
faithful  imitator.  And  if  the  form  is  dead  to-day, 
it  is  dead  because  the  most  intrepid  humourist  would 
hesitate  to  walk  in  the  footsteps  of  Lemuel  Gulliver. 

Fortunate  in  his  imitators,  Lucian  has  been  not 
wholly  unfortunate  in  his  translators.  Not  even  envy 
could  pick  a  quarrel  with  Francis  Hickes,  who  first 
Englished  The  True  History.  The  book  appeared 
under  the  auspices  of  Hickes'  son  in  1634,  four  years 
after  the  translator's  death.  Thus  it  is  described 
on  the  title-page :  "  Certaine  Select  Dialogues  of 
Lucian  together  with  his  true  Historie,  translated 
from  the  Greeke  into  English  by  Mr.  Francis  Hickes. 
Whereunto  is  added  the  life  of  Lucian  gathered  out  of 
his  own  Writings  with  briefe  Notes  and  Illustrations 
upon  each  Dialogue  and  Booke,  by  T.  H.,  Master 
of  Arts,  of  Christ  Church  in  Oxford.  Printed  by 
William  Turner,  1634."  Composed  with  a  certain 
dignity,  it  is  dedicated  "  to  the  Right  Worshipful  Dr. 
Duppa,  Deane  of  Christ  Church,  and  Vice-Chancellor 
of  the  famous  Universitie  in  (Oxford."     And  the  work 


LUCIAN  201 

reflects  a  wholesome  glory  upon  the  famous  Univer- 
sity. For  it  is  the  work  of  a  scholar,  who  knew  both 
the  languages.  Though  his  diction  lacked  the  spirit 
and  colour  which  distinguish  the  more  splendid  ver- 
sions of  the  Tudor  age,  he  was  far  more  keenly 
conscious  of  his  original  than  his  predecessors.  Not 
only  did  he  translate  directly  from  the  Greek,  but 
he  followed  his  original  with  loyalty  and  patience. 
In  brief,  his  Lucian  is  a  miracle  of  suitability. 
The  close  simplicity  of  Hickes  fits  the  classical 
restraint  of  The  True  History  to  admiration.  As 
the  Greek  is  a  model  of  narrative,  so  you  cannot 
read  the  English  version  without  thinking  of  the 
incomparable  Hakluyt.  Thirty  years  after  the  first 
printing  of  the  translation,  Jasper  Mayne  published 
his  Part  of  Lucian  made  English^  wherein  he  added 
sundry  versions  of  his  own  to  the  work  already 
accomplished  by  Francis  Hickes.  And  in  his  Epistle 
Dedicatory  he  discusses  the  art  of  translation  with  an 
intelligence  which  proves  how  intimately  he  realised 
the  excellent  quality  of  Hickes*  version.  "  For  as  the 
painter" — thus  Jasper  Mayne — "who  would  draw  a 
man  of  a  bald  head,  rumpled  forehead,  copper  nose, 
pigge  eyes,  and  ugly  face,  draws  him  not  to  life,  nor 
doth  the  business  of  his  art,  if  he  draw  him  less  de- 
formed or  ugly  than  he  is  ;  or  as  he  who  would  draw 
a  faire,  amiable  lady,  limbes  with  an  erring  pencil,  and 
drawes  a  libell,  not  a  face,  if  he  gives  her  not  just 
features,  and  perfections :  So  in  the  translation  of 
Bookes,  he  who   makes   a   dull   author   elegant   and 


202  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

quick  ;  or  a  sharp,  elegant  author  flat,  rustick,  rude 
and  dull,  by  contrary  wayes,  commits  the  same  sinne, 
and  cannot  be  said  to  translate,  but  to  transforme." 
That  is  sound  sense,  and  judged  by  the  high  standard 
of  Jasper  Mayne,  Francis  Hickes  has  most  valiantly 
acquitted  himself. 

He  was  the  son  of  Richard  Hickes,  an  arras  weaver 
of  Barcheston,  in  Warwickshire,  and  after  taking  the 
degree  of  Bachelor  in  the  University  of  Oxford,  which 
he  entered  in  1579,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  he  was 
diverted  (says  Thomas,  his  son)  "by  a  country  re- 
tirement;" henceforth  he  devoted  his  life  to  husbandry 
and  Greek.  Besides  Lucian,  he  translated  Thucy- 
dides  and  Herodian,  the  manuscripts  of  which  are  said 
to  survive  in  the  library  of  Christ  Church.  Possibly  it 
was  his  long  retirement  that  gave  a  turn  of  pedantry 
to  his  mind.  It  was  but  natural  that  in  his  remote 
garden  he  should  exaggerate  the  importance  of  the 
knowledge  acquired  in  patient  solitude.  But  certain 
it  is  that  the  notes  wherewith  he  decorated  his  margins 
are  triumphs  of  inapposite  erudition.  When  Lucian 
describes  the  famous  cobwebs,  each  one  of  which  was 
as  big  as  an  island  of  the  Cyclades,  Hickes  thinks  to 
throw  light  upon  the  text  with  this  astonishing 
irrelevancy :  "  They  are  in  the  iEgean  Sea,  in 
number  13."  The  foible  is  harmless,  nay  pleasant, 
and  consonant  with  the  character  of  the  learned 
recluse.  Thus  lived  Francis  Hickes,  silent  and  un- 
known, until  in  1630  he  died  at  a  kinsman's  house 
at  Sutton,  in  Gloucestershire.     And  you  regret  that 


LUCIAN  203 

his  glory  was  merely  posthumous.  For,  pedant  as  he 
was,  he  made  known  to  his  countrymen  the  Rabelais  of 
the  ancients,  the  veritable  enemy  of  all  the  pedants, 
and  matched  a  masterpiece  of  Greek  with  another 
masterpiece  of  sound  and  scholarly  English. 


LUCIAN 
II 


LUCIAN 
II 

BORN  in  Syria,  educated,  maybe,  in  Rome,  a 
citizen  of  the  great  empire,  familiar  with  the 
men  and  countries  of  the  known  world,  Lucian  re- 
mained until  his  death  a  devout  Athenian.  Though 
it  pleased  him  to  lecture  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  Macedonia,  though  he  carried  culture  to 
far-distant  Gaul,  he  never  forgot  that — as  a  man 
of  letters — he  owed  his  allegiance  to  that  miraculous 
city  of  the  sea,  which  centuries  ago  had  closed  her 
book  of  glory.  For  to  Lucian  Athens  was  still  an 
alma  mater^  who  with  splendour  undimmed  cherished 
the  destinies  of  literature,  and  imposed  her  laws  upon 
all  the  world.  Never  once  does  he  hint  at  decline ; 
never  once  does  he  suggest  that  the  age  of  Pericles  is 
past.  With  an  admirable  dogmatism  he  suppresses  the 
intervening  years,  and  pictures  you  a  city  which,  still 
the  home  of  Thucydides,  listens  awestruck  to  the 
wisdom  of  Socrates.  The  eminence  of  Rome  avails 
not  to  turn  him  from  his  loyalty ;  though  he  never 
loses  an  occasion  to  quote  a  tag  from  the  poets,  though 
the  lightest  of  his  essays  is  embellished  with  a  literary 


2o8  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

allusion,  he  knows  naught  of  Virgil  or  Horace,  and, 
what  is  still  stranger,  professes  no  acquaintance  with 
Plautus  or  Terence.  In  brief,  he  chose  his  home  and 
he  chose  his  period,  and  there  is  little  beyond  a  hand- 
ful of  references  to  prove  that  Rome  had  passed  its 
Augustan  age  a  hundred  years  before  Lucian's  birth, 
and  that  she  was  throughout  his  career  the  undisputed 
mistress  of  three  continents. 

He  describes  himself  somewhere  as  one  who  lived 
with  the  ancients,  and  for  all  his  ceaseless  questing 
after  new  ideas,  for  all  his  valiant  curiosity  and  research, 
for  all  his  reckless  destruction  of  idols,  he  was  in 
literature  as  in  life  a  staunch  Conservative.  His  fancy 
wandered  far  back  into  the  past,  and  that  for  which  he 
had  no  appreciation  was  neither  good  nor  bad  :  it  was 
condemned  to  silence.  History  can  hardly  show  a 
more  violent  paradox  than  this  hard,  sceptical,  modern 
philosopher  for  whom  nothing  seemed  real  save  the 
remote,  and  who,  though  a  professed  critic,  had  no 
word  of  praise  or  blame  for  the  dominant  literature  of 
his  time.  He  would  conquer  for  his  craft  a  whole 
kingdom  of  new  material  ,  but  meanwhile  he  knew 
no  other  classics  than  Homer  and  Thucydides,  than 
Herodotus  and  i^schylus.  Sculpture  for  him  meant 
the  masterpieces  of  Phidias,  of  Polycletus,  of  Myron 
and  Alcamenes,  while  Zeuxis  and  Apelles,  the  only 
painters  worthy  of  admiration,  might  perchance  be 
Hving  yet.  Wherefore  it  is  not  surprising  that  he 
wrote  Greek  with  the  austere  suavity  of  the  ancients. 
T  hough   separated   from   his    models    by  some    five 


LUCIAN  209 

centuries,  by  as  wide  a  lapse  as  divides  Tennyson  and 
Chaucer,  he  cultivated  a  style  which  Plato  or  Sophron 
would  have  understood,  and  he  achieved  this  marvel 
without  betraying  the  smallest  trace  of  archaism. 
Could  there  be  found  a  better  example  of  tradition's 
tyranny  ?  Lucian  was  a  writer  of  delicate  taste,  to 
whom  the  extremes  of  affectation  and  artificiality  were 
repugnant ;  yet  so  strong  a  hold  had  the  Greek  tongue 
kept  upon  the  world,  that  his  language  would  have 
appeared  not  only  correct  but  admirable  to  the  genera- 
tion which  heard  Sophocles  in  the  theatre  of  Dionysus. 
Imagine  Mr.  Pater  apeing  the  style  of  Wycliffe  and 
escaping  notice  !  And  Lucian's  achievement  is  evep 
stranger,  for  he  was  a  foreigner  dwelling  in  foreign 
cities,  who  chose  Greek  as  Apuleius  chose  Latin,  by  a 
whimsical  preference.  Moreover,  he  never  spoke  it 
without  an  accent.  "I  talk  Greek,"  he  confesses 
himself,  "  like  a  barbarian  "  ;  but  at  least  he  wrote  it 
like  the  Athenian  he  elected  to  be,  and  the  mobs  which 
listened  to  him  could  not  detect  the  Syrian  quality  of 
his  speech. 

.Nor  was  the  Athens  of  his  adoration  the  greedy, 
mean,  unscrupulous  city  wherewith  the  Roman  satirists 
have  made  us  familiar.  The  hungry  Greekling  had 
no  place  in  the  paradise  of  lofty  thought  and  noble 
conduct  which  Lucian  saw  in  his  dreams.  The 
panegyric  of  Athens  put  into  the  mouth  of  Nigrinus, 
was  obviously  fashioned  by  his  own  brain,  and  could 
only  befit  a  commonwealth  of  heroism  and  restraint. 
Yet  its  ardent  sincerity  is  beyond  question  -,    and  in 


210  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Lucian's  eyes  tradition  still  snatched  the  victory  from 
decadence  and  death.  Athens,  then,  is  the  proper 
refuge  for  the  needy  philosopher,  who  values  the 
refinements  of  life  above  the  indiscriminate  scramble 
for  wealth.  For  such  a  one,  be  he  stranger  or  native- 
born,  Athens  has  always  a  generous  welcome.  But 
luckless  is  he  who  would  challenge  her  sympathy  with 
ostentation,  and  capture  her  affection  by  display.  Yet 
her  citizens  are  moderate  in  their  displeasure,  and  re- 
proach even  vulgarity  with  a  jest.  "  The  bath  has  en- 
joyed a  long  peace,"  they  whisper  to  some  foreigner  who 
comes  among  them  with  an  enormous  retinue,  "  there 
is  no  need  of  a  camp  here."  And  when  the  upstart 
would  astonish  the  town  with  a  coat  of  many  colours 
and  purple  trappings,  "Look,"  they  murmur,  "the 
Spring  is  here  already,"  or,  "  Where  did  this  peacock 
spring  from?"  or,  "Perhaps  this  robe  is  his  mother's? " 
But  for  him  who  loves  a  simple  life,  and  the  pursuit  of 
philosophy,  Athens  is  the  pleasantest  resort,  since  there 
may  you  live  in  accordance  with  nature  and  in  the 
presence  of  beautiful  things.  So  Lucian  contrasts 
Rome  with  this  perfect  harmony,  and  handsomely 
avenges  the  Gr  a  cuius  esuriens.  "  Why,  poor  devil, 
did  you  leave  the  sunlight  ? "  asks  Nigrinus  of  him- 
self, when  he  sets  foot  in  the  capital  of  the  Empire, 
where  pleasure  is  admitted  at  every  gate — pleasure 
with  its  attendant  vice — and  where  all  men  race  for 
the  wealth  which  shall  buy  them  gratification  and 
satiety.  There  the  slave  of  to-day  is  the  rich  man  of 
to-morrow,  and  in  the  pitiless  struggle  honesty  and 


LUCIAN  211 

learning  are  despised.  How  should  philosophy  prevail 
against  the  universal  love  of  horse-racing  ?  How 
should  you  expect  simplicity  from  a  city  which  sets  up 
the  statues  of  its  jockeys  at  every  street  corner,  and 
babbles  only  of  its  favourites'  names  ?  Thus  Lucian, 
preferring  the  condemned,  forgotten  Athens,  shows  in 
his  preference  as  in  his  style  that  he  is  the  last  of  the 
Classics. 

Yes,  this  Syrian  with  a  provincial  accent  is  a  true 
classic — classic  in  the  humane  management  of  his 
style,  classic  also  in  his  whole-hearted  admiration  of 
the  past.  But  when  you  desert  the  form  for  the 
substance,  you  see  how  just  is  the  commonplace, 
already  quoted,  that  he  was  the  first  of  the  moderns. 
His  achievement  was  nothing  less  than  a  miracle.  He 
poured  the  new  wine  of  modern  experience  into  the 
old  bottle  of  classic  style,  and  neither  wine  nor  bottle 
was  spoilt.  If  taste  and  reverence  restrained  his  ex- 
pression, his  thought  was  free  as  air,  and  with  perfect 
truth  he  quoted  the  tag  of  Terence  (doubtless  from  its 
Greek  original) :  "  Nothing  that  is  human  is  foreign 
to  me."  Remembering  also  his  familiarity  with  the 
Gods,  to  human  he  might  have  added  divine.  He 
found  his  material  where  he  chose — in  the  shadowy 
palace  of  Olympus  or  in  the  highways  of  Rome. 
Now  it  was  Zeus  that  engrossed  his  scorn,  now  it 
was  Alexander  the  False  Prophet  that  amused  his 
fancy  ;  and  God  or  Charlatan  was  sufficient  excuse 
for  sly  wit  or  swift  imagination.  But  in  nothing  does 
he  display  the  perfect  freshness  of  his  invention  so 


212  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

evidently  as  in  the  bitter  spirit  of  criticism  which 
animates  the  most  of  his  works.  There  is  a  legend 
that  he  left  the  sculptor's  studio,  where  he  should  have 
learnt  his  art,  because  he  broke  in  two  the  first  block 
of  marble  submitted  to  his  chisel.  And  this  is  a 
symbol  of  his  career :  his  talent  was  analytic  and 
destructive  ;  he  was  always  breaking  superstition  in 
pieces,  or  tearing  the  follies  of  mankind  to  shreds. 
Nor,  when  he  had  cleared  the  ground  of  its  impeding 
rubble  did  he  profess  an  ambition  to  build  anew.  He 
was  of  those  happy  ones  who  can  live  by  the  light  of 
honesty  and  honour,  and  who  need  no  compulsion  of 
creed  or  system  to  drive  them  to  virtue  and  content. 
Only  he  must  examine  all  things  ;  and,  having  dis- 
covered folly  to  himself,  he  must  expose  it  to  others 
for  the  satisfaction  of  his  irony. 

Thus  he  was  the  first  critic  not  of  literature 
merely,  not  of  art,  but  of  human  life,  and  of  all  that 
it  embraced.  And  if  his  ironic  method  of  judgment 
was  of  his  own  devising,  the  shape  of  his  criticism  was 
fresh,  various,  imaginative.  Now,  his  contempt  would 
take  the  form  of  a  tiny  drama  ;  now,  he  would  half 
reveal  his  hidden  meaning  in  a  parable.  But  rarely 
does  he  descend  to  express  a  bald  opinion  in  the  bald 
terms  of  conviction.  Of  the  dialogue  he  was  the  first 
and  perfect  master.  Doubtless  he  had  gathered  hints 
from  Plato  and  the  mimes  ;  doubtless  he  had  learnt 
whatever  the  New  Comedy  had  to  teach  of  argument 
and  repartee.  And  yet  the  dialogue,  as  he  practised  it, 
was  essentially  his  own.    His  prose,  more  familiar  than 


LUCIAN  213 

Plato's,  is  as  sprightly  as  the  sprightliest  comedy  ;  and 
now  for  the  first  time  was  the  ancient  form,  perfected 
in  a  sort  of  verse  by  Sophron,  turned  to  the  easy 
dissection  of  abuse,  to  the  fierce  confusion  of  the 
foolish  and  superstitious.  He  blends  narrative  with 
irony  ;  he  quickens  a  smile  when  his  reprobation  is 
heaviest ;  and  to  beguile  the  progress  of  his  acid 
merriment  he  takes  the  reader  on  ship-board  or  by  the 
pleasant  lanes  of  Attica,  or  bids  him  look  from  the 
Acropolis  on  the  shining  city  beneath. 

And  what  were  the  terrors  against  which  the  critic 
hurled  his  satire  ?  Like  an  excellent  Conservative  he 
hated  the  democrat  who  governs  the  assembly  of  the 
rich,  who  is  hungry  only  for  games,  baths  and 
spectacles,  and  who  is  ready  in  recompense  for 
generosity  to  stone  the  wealthy  citizen  that  feeds  him. 
With  a  proper  scorn  he  assailed  the  upstart  who  marks 
his  accession  to  an  ill-gotten  fortune  by  adding  two 
syllables  to  his  name,  the  simple  unnoticed  Simon,  who 
bids  the  world  respect  the  dignity  of  Simonides.  But 
he  aimed  his  heaviest  shafts  at  the  philosophers,  whose 
tangled  beards  and  greasy  mantles  were  his  constant 
target.  Now,  the  philosophers  occupied  in  Lucian's 
world  the  space  filled  in  after  ages  by  the  friars. 
Their  gulching  bellies  refuted  the  plea  of  hunger  and 
beggary.  Though  they  would  not  work,  still  must 
they  eat ;  and  while  they  preached  temperance  to 
others,  their  noses  were  at  once  the  symbol  and  the 
result  of  a  too-patient  devotion  to  the  bottle.  Eager 
only  for  money  and  advertisement,  they  believed  their 


214  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

duty  done  when  they  had  chosen  a  label,  and  put  on 
the  uniform  of  rags.  Why  do  the  Pythagoreans 
refuse  to  eat  beans  and  flesh  ?  Not  for  the  sake  of 
virtue,  but  that  they  may  become  famous  by  their  very 
eccentricity,  that  they  may  be  pointed  at  in  the  street 
with  the  murmured  surprise  :  "  There  go  the  philo- 
sophers who  abstain  from,  flesh  and  beans." 

So  the  philosophers  pursued  no  calling  ;  they  per- 
formed no  service  to  the  State  :  a  useless  fardel  of  the 
earth,  they  shouted  calumniously,  and  levied  a  pitiless 
blackmail  on  the  rich  and  complacent.  Yet,  despite 
their  constant  habit  of  beggary,  they  pretended  that 
they  were  high  exalted  above  the  need  of  money,  and 
clamorously  asserted  that  the  wise  man  alone  is  rich. 
Though  virtue  was  ever  on  their  tongue,  their  heart 
was  packed  full  of  avarice  and  slander.  A  resolute 
training  carried  them  safely  through  their  studied  per- 
formance, but  the  sight  of  an  obol  was  suflicient  to 
lead  them  astray,  so  that  they  resembled  nothing  so 
much  as  those  monkeys  whom  a  King  of  Egypt  taught 
to  perform  the  Pyrrhic  dance,  and  whose  performance 
was  perfect,  until  one  day  a  spectator  threw  a  handful 
of  nuts  into  the  theatre.  Instantly  the  well-trained 
rascals  rid  themselves  of  their  masks,  tore  their  coats 
to  pieces,  and  scrambled  for  the  nuts,  remembering 
that  if  they  were  dancers  afterwards  they  were  monkeys 
first.  So,  too,  the  primal  impulse  of  the  man  was  too 
strong  for  the  cant  of  the  philosopher,  and  when  (in 
The  Fisher)  the  Cynic's  wallet  was  open,  they  found 
therein — not    a    crust,   a    book,   and    a    handful    of 


LUCIAN  215 

beans — but  gold,  perfumes,  a  mirror,  and  a  dice-box. 
In  the  miserable  Peregrinus,  however,  all  the  sins  of 
his  class  were  met  together,  and  Lucian,  well  skilled 
in  the  portraiture  of  the  charlatan,  never  surpassed  his 
contemptuous  presentation  of  this  impostor. 

The  illustrious  Peregrinus  then,  who  after  the  Zeus 
of  Phidias  was  the  single  wonder  of  the  earth,  deter- 
mined, by  an  act  of  sacrifice,  not  only  to  show  his 
fellow  citizens  how  a  philosopher  could  die,  but  to 
illumine  his  name  with  a  more  brilliant  advertisement 
than  countless  generations  of  Barnums  have  devised 
since.  Having  lived  like  Hercules,  he  determined  like 
Hercules  to  die.  Wherefore  he  built  him  a  vast  pyre 
at  Olympia  and  died  at  the  stake  in  the  presence  of 
thousands.  Lucian,  himself  a  witness  of  the  philo* 
sopher's  "roasting,"  describes  how  to  the  last  Pere- 
grinus, an  ingrained  coward,  hoped  that  the  crowd 
would  frustrate  his  design.  And  bitter  was  his  dis- 
appointment when,  tired  of  the  foolish  spectacle,  they 
cried  aloud  :  "  Make  an  end  of  it,  make  an  end  of  it ! " 
Thus  died  the  foolish  philosopher,  who  governed  his 
life  by  vanity  and  the  lust  of  popular  approval.  And 
Democritus  would  have  laughed  at  the  spectacle,  and 
yet  not  found  laughter  enough,  while  "  as  for  you," 
says  Lucian  to  his  friend  Theagenes,  "  you  laugh  too, 
and  above  all,  laugh  when  you  hear  others  marvelling 
at  such  folly." 

But  if  Lucian  was  unsparing  in  his  contempt  of 
vanity  and  pretence,  he  was  generous  in  admiration  of 
the  true  philosopher.     He  visited  Nigrinus  as  a  sick 


2i6  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

man  visits  a  physician,  and  thereafter  composed  a 
sincere  panegyric  of  his  wisdom  and  eloquence.  But 
the  supreme  hero,  in  his  eyes,  was  Demonax,  whose 
perfections  he  employs  as  a  scourge  wherewith  to 
scourge  the  upstart  and  impostor,  and  whose  praise  is, 
in  a  sense,  the  severest  criticism  of  his  fellows.  Above 
all  he  reveres  this  philosopher,  because  his  wisdom  had 
never  made  him  forget  that  he  was  a  gentleman  as  well 
as  a  scholar.  He  refused  to  vie  with  the  footpads  of 
Athens  in  eccentricity  of  garb  and  uncomeliness  of 
person.  He  did  nothing  to  attract  the  notice  of  the 
crowd  ;  he  dressed  like  others,  and  lived  a  life  of  dis- 
tinguished simplicity.  Above  all  he  protected  himself 
against  the  popular  insolence  by  a  bitterness  of  repartee, 
which,  if  it  were  not  precisely  the  Socratic  irony, 
was  always  touched  with  Attic  grace.  And  as  Lucian 
admired  the  few  wise  men  w^ho  found  wisdom  else- 
where than  in  the  blind  adherence  to  a  school,  so  for 
Philosophy,  his  dear  mistress,  he  cherished  an  undying 
reverence.  But  alas !  it  was  in  vain  that  he  sought 
her.  "  I  know  not  where  she  lives,"  he  wrote,  "  and 
yet  I  have  wandered  up  and  down  a  weary  while 
seeking  her  house  that  I  might  pay  her  a  visit." 

Possibly  he  never  found  her  save  in  a  dream,  yet 
sedulously  did  he  practise  the  rites  of  her  worship,  and 
the  bitterest  of  his  irony  is  devoted  to  her  defence. 
But  of  literature  also  he  was  an  eager  champion,  and 
a  theory  of  criticism  may  be  deduced  from  his  casual 
utterances.  He  followed  Aristotle  implicitly  in  the 
belief  that  the  end  and  aim  of  art  was  to  give  pleasure. 


LUCIAN  217 

He  shrank  from  realism  as  he  shrank  from  novelty,  as 
he  shrank  from  every  ingenuity  which  marred  the 
perfect  beauty  of  a  piece.  There  is  a  certain  pathos 
in  the  apology  which  he  made,  at  the  top  of  his  fame, 
for  his  favourite  dialogue.  An  over  zealous  friend  had 
proclaimed  him  the  "  Prometheus  of  literature,"  and 
he  disowns  the  name  in  a  passage  of  admirable  dignity. 
"  Perhaps,"  says  he,  in  effect,  "  I  am  called  Prometheus 
because  my  works  are  fresh  in  form  and  follow  the 
example  of  no  man But  in  my  eyes  strange- 
ness without  beauty  has  no  merit  ....  and  I  should 
deserve  to  be  torn  to  pieces  by  sixteen  vultures  if  I 
thought  that  a  work  of  art  could  be  distinguished  by 
novelty  alone."  So  he  would  prove  that  the  form  is 
no  new  thing  at  all,  but  the  legitimate  child  of 
Dialogue  and  Comedy ;  so  he  would  reject  the  false 
praise  which  his  admirers  would  bid  him  share  with 
the  black  camel  of  Bactria  or  with  the  striped  man 
that  Ptolemy  brought  to  Egypt.  So  in  the  Zeuxis^ 
this  ancient  classic,  who  could  not  withhold  his  hand 
from  new  material,  and  who  always  had  ready  a  new 
form  of  parable,  adds  to  his  eloquent  denunciation  of 
novelty  a  candid  defence  of  technique  against  the 
tyranny  of  subject.  He  had  left  a  lecture-room,  he 
tells  you,  furious  with  the  ill-considered  applause  of  his 
audience,  and  especially  enraged  against  the  constant 
comphment  heaped  upon  the  novelty  of  his  discourse.* 

*  The  shouts  of  the  people  were  as  fatuous  then  as  to-day. 
Q  TTJs  KaivdrrjTOSy  they  cried ;  'Hpd/cXeis,  rijs  irapado^oXoyias. 
ivfirjxo-vos  AvSpuiros.     oi/dh  6.v  ris  etiroi  ttjs  iirivoias  veapdrrepov. 


2i8  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

As  he  went  homeward,  chagrined  that  he  is  admired 
only  because  he  has  left  the  common  road ;  that 
he  receives  the  praise  of  a  facile  conjurer ;  that 
the  harmony  of  his  Attic  style,  the  swiftness  of 
his  imagination,  his  many-coloured  fancy  count  for 
nothing  ;  he  bethought  him  of  the  mishap  which  befel 
Zeuxis.  Now,  Zeuxis  painted  a  family  of  centaurs, 
the  mare  stretched  upon  the  deep  grass,  and  the  centaur 
keeping  watch  in  the  background,  a  long-haired,  savage 
child  of  the  mountain.  But  the  people  passed  by  in 
idle  contempt  not  only  the  beauty  of  the  drawing  and 
the  exquisite  harmony  of  the  colour,  but  also  the  variety 
of  expression,  and  the  changing  characters  of  the 
centaurs.  They  only  applauded  the  singular  motive, 
because  they  had  never  seen  it  treated  before.  "  Roll 
up  the  canvas,"  said  Zeuxis  to  his  pupil,  "  and  take  it 
home.  These  men  only  praise  the  mud  of  our  art. 
In  their  eyes  the  novelty  of  a  subject  eclipses  every 
excellence  of  execution." 

The  rebuke  is  commonplace  to-day,  though  it  has 
seldom  been  administered  with  a  better  tact.  But  in 
Lucian's  time  it  was  as  strange  as  the  craze  of  inven- 
tion which  he  condemned,  and  despite  his  own  protest 
he  must  once  again  be  flattered  for  his  originality. 
Nor  was  his  contempt  of  realism  less  apt  than  his 
hatred  of  charlatanry,  and  to  illustrate  his  dislike  he 
chose  the  art  he  loved  the  best,  the  art  of  pantomime. 
Moreover,  after  his  wont,  he  put  his  criticism  in  the 
form  of  an  anecdote.  "  Once  upon  a  time  there  was 
a  mime  who  played  the  part  of  Ajax  mad,  and  he 


LUCIAN  219 

played  it  with  so  reckless  a  disregard  of  the  rules  of 
his  art  that  he  did  not  represent  madness  ;  he  seemed 
rather  to  be  mad  himself.  He  tore  the  coat  from  the 
back  of  one  of  those  who  beat  time  with  their  iron 
sandals,  and  snatching  a  flute  from  one  of  the  players, 
he  struck  Ulysses,  who  stood  by  exulting  in  his  victory, 
so  fiercely  on  the  head  that  he  surely  would  have  died 
had  not  his  helmet  broken  the  force  of  the  blow.  And 
then  the  whole  theatre  went  mad  with  Ajax  ;  the 
spectators  leapt  to  their  feet,  they  shouted,  they  tore  ofF 
their  cloaks.  The  more  foolish  among  them,  unable 
to  distingush  between  good  and  evil,  thought  they  saw 
before  them  a  lifelike  representation  of  madness,  while 
the  more  intelligent,  ashamed  at  what  was  going  on, 
were  reluctant  to  condemn  the  performance  by  their 
silence,  and  attempted  by  applause  to  cover  the  folly  of 
the  performance.  But  all  the  while  they  knew  that  it 
was  the  madness  not  of  Ajax  but  of  the  player  that  they 
were  witnessing.  The  poor  devil,  still  unsatisfied, 
went  to  yet  greater  lengths.  He  descended  into  the 
theatre  and  took  his  seat  between  two  of  consular  rank, 
each  of  whom  feared  that  he  would  seize  and  flog  him 
like  a  sheep.  And  some  wondered  and  some  laughed, 
and  others  were  afraid  that  the  actor's  feigned  madness 
would  turn  to  a  true  malady." 

Never  were  the  limits  of  art  expressed  in  an  apter 
parable.  How  well  we  know  the  foolish  man  who 
shouts  "lifelike"  when  he  contemplates  an  outrage 
upon  good  taste  !  And  the  conclusion  is  as  wise  as 
the  parable.     Imitation,  says  Lucian,  is  not  reality  -, 


220  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

and  he  who  would  actually  perform  that  which  he 
should  represent  is  no  artist,  but  a  madman.  Even 
the  actor,  relates  the  critic,  was  so  ashamed  at  this 
triumph  of  excess  that  he  never  again  played  the  part 
of  Ajax,  though  it  had  been  written  for  him.  "  It  is 
enough,"  he  murmured,  "  to  have  been  mad  once," 
and  straightway  with  a  reasonable  generosity,  unique 
in  the  annals  of  the  stage,  he  resigned  his  part  to  a 
popular  rival,  who  played  the  mad  scene  with  perfect 
restraint,  and  received  the  highest  possible  praise  for 
that  he  never  overstepped  the  legitimate  boundaries  of 
his  art. 

Simple  as  is  the  anecdote,  it  expresses  a  judgment  of 
perennial  sanity.  What  else  is  the  realist  than  the 
actor  who  mistakes  the  madness  of  Ajax  for  his  own, 
and  who  would  willingly  break  the  head  of  his  neigh- 
bour and  assault  the  people,  if  only  he  may  be  certain 
of  an  instant  and  violent  effect  ?  Indeed,  as  you  turn 
over  the  pages  of  Lucian,  you  understand  that  he  was 
not  only  modern,  but  prophetic.  He  anticipated  by 
many  centuries  the  steam-engine  and  the  telegraph. 
Timolaus  (in  The  Ship)  would  announce  the  name  of 
the  Olympian  victor  in  Babylon  the  very  day  the  race 
was  run  ;  he  would  breakfast  in  Syria,  and  dine  in 
Italy.  And  yet  more  wonderful,  Lucian  provides  in 
his  criticism  for  the  last-born  vice  or  virtue  of  litera- 
ture. He  is  always  ready  to  ridicule  our  folly  with  a 
quip,  and  to  turn  the  flash  of  his  irony  upon  a  modern 
ineptitude.  But  perhaps  he  nowhere  shows  himself 
a  truer  prophet .  than   in    his   admirable   essay   upon 


LUCIAN  221 

Pantomime.  This  essay,  inspired  by  the  unmeasured 
enthusiasm  of  the  poet,  and  tempered  with  the  genial 
pedantry  of  the  scholar,  is  the  perfection  of  ironic 
criticism.  As  you  read  it  you  t^:nk  perforce  of 
Deburau,  of  Nodier,  of  the  Funamhules^  with  its  saw- 
dust and  oranges.  You  might  be  reading  a  trans- 
figured rhapsody  devised  by  Gautier  himself,  or  look- 
ing upon  a  brilliant  picture  of  which  Janin's  theatre 
a  ^atre  Sous  is  a  pallid  reflection.  For  here  is  the 
real  essence  of  romantic  pantomime  as  it  was  praised 
in  Athens  by  the  wisest  of  philosophers,  and  adored  on 
the  Boulevard  du  Temple  by  the  wittiest  of  critics. 

So  pantomime  in  Lucian's  eyes  is  the  greatest  of 
the  arts.  While  he  follows  the  opinion  of  Aristotle, 
he  embroiders  it  with  so  extravagant  a  bravery  that 
the  austere  author  of  The  Poetics  would  never  recog- 
nise his  own.  As  it  is  the  finest,  so  it  is  the  oldest  of 
the  arts.  The  earliest  dancers*  were  the  stars,  and 
even  the  planets  wove  a  stately,  rhythmical  measure. 
And  then  with  a  sly  parade  of  inapposite  history, 
Lucian  reviews  the  progress  of  the  art  in  all  ages  and 
countries,  from  the  savagery  of  the  Corybantes  and 
the  finer  elegance  of  Neoptolemus,  the  son  of  Achilles, 
to  the  practice  of  his  own  day.  He  finds  it  superior 
to  tragedy,  in  that,  while  it  employs  the  same  materials, 
it  combines  them  with  a  far  greater  freedom  and  variety. 
Thus,  still  true  to  his  noble  enthusiasm,  he  sketches 
the  mime,  and  demands  of  him  so  vast  a  learning  and 

*  "Opxnf^i-^  is  Lucian's  Greek  for  pantomime,  an  art  indis- 
tinguishable from  the  dance. 


222  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

prowess,  that  you  wonder  that  he  was  ever  able  to 
gratify  his  legitimate  taste.  The  mime  (or  dancer), 
says  he,  must  win  the  favour  of  Mnemosyne  and 
Polymnia.  Like  Homer's  Calchas,  he  must  know  the 
present,  past,  and  future.  As  it  is  his  function  to 
imitate,  to  give  an  outward  expression  of  thought,  to 
make  clear  the  obscure,  his  highest  praise  is  that  which 
Thucydides  found  for  Pericles,  that  he  knew  what  he 
should  and  could  explain  it.  Moreover,  since  the 
material  of  pantomime  is  ancient  history,  the  mime 
must  be  familiar  with  all  things  from  Chaos  to  Cleo- 
patra, and  even  with  this  mastery  of  universal  learning 
he  is  at  the  threshold  of  his  art.  Dumb,  he  must  be 
understood,  and  though  he  speak  not,  yet  men  must 
hear  him. 

His  perfection  is  measured  in  the  rebuke  administered 
to  Demetrius  the  Cynic,  who  thought  so  ill  of  panto- 
mime that  he  charged  the  mime  with  relying  for  his 
effect  upon  trivial  accessories — the  trappings  of  silk, 
the  dainty  mask,  the  music  of  the  flute.  Whereupon 
a  most  renowned  actor,  who  best  knew  the  history  of 
his  art,  and  excelled  all  living  men  in  the  beauty  of 
his  gesture,  freed  his  stage  for  the  moment  of  all 
decoration.  He  put  aside  both  costume  and  mask  ; 
he  silenced  the  music,  suppressed  the  chorus  and  per- 
formed alone  the  Love  of  Ares  and  Aphrodite.  With- 
out aid  he  represented  the  betrayal  of  the  intrigue,  the 
trap  laid  by  Hephaestus,  the  shame  of  Aphrodite,  the 
fearful  supplication  of  Ares ;  and  with  so  exquisite  a 
precision  that  Demetrius  made  immediate  submission. 


LUCIAN  223 

He  put  no  limit  on  the  extravagance  of  his  praise. 
"  I  hear,"  said  he  to  the  actor,  "  all  that  you  do  ;  I  do 
not  merely  see  ;  in  truth  you  appear  to  speak  with  your 
fingers." 

In  such  terms  was  Deburau  praised  by  a  hundred 
critics  who  knew  not  Lucian,  and  the  universality  of 
the  criticism  is  evidence,  maybe,  of  its  truth.  But 
Lucian  has  not  yet  exhausted  the  qualities  of  his 
actor ;  for  he  would  have  him  know  as  much  of  life 
as  of  history.  He  must  not  stay  like  a  limpet  on  his 
rock  J  he  must  know  the  manners  of  many  cities,  and 
travel  the  wide  world  up  and  down.  Grace,  especially 
grace  of  hand,  is  essential  ;  strength,  also,  must  belong 
to  the  perfect  mime.  And  then  having  united  in  his 
proper  person  all  the  elegances  and  harmonious  ges- 
tures, having  mastered  history  and  science  and  studied 
the  intelligence  of  mankind,  he  still  falls  short  of  his 
art  if  he  do  not  compel  the  spectators  to  see  in  his 
performance  their  own  passions  and  experience  as  in  a 
mirror.  In  brief,  avoiding  the  very  appearance  of 
realism,  he  must  suggest  by  a  movement  of  hand  or 
eye  the  poignant  moment  of  a  tragedy  or  the  heart- 
v/hole  laughter  of  a  trivial  farce.  'Tis  a  pleasing 
paradox,  this  elevation  of  what  to-day  is  wrongly  held 
the  humblest  of  the  arts  to  the  throne  of  dignity.  Yet 
Lucian  is  justified  even  in  his  paradox.  The  other 
arts,  says  he,  express  one  emotion  ;  pantomime  pre- 
sents them  all.  It  shows  you  body  and  soul  inex- 
tricably blended ;  it  combines  the  form  of  sculpture, 
the  colour  of  painting  with  the  swift  movement  of 


224  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

life  and  of  the  brain.  And  you  imagine  this  ancient 
philosopher,  with  a  smile  for  the  pedantic  irony  of  his 
own  treatise,  sitting  day  after  day  at  his  favourite 
spectacle,  and  administering  to  Crates  the  same  re- 
proof which  Gautier  might  have  framed  for  them  who 
detected  at  the  Funambules  nothing  but  sawdust 
and  grotesquery. 

Thus,  while  in  his  creative  work  Lucian  remained 
a  critic,  his  criticism  was  always  creative.  Yet  now 
and  again  he  laid  aside  his  more  serious  intent,  and 
drew  a  portrait  for  its  own  sake.  His  Alexander^ 
or  the  False  Prophet^  is  a  masterpiece  of  ruffianism  ; 
and  though  he  confesses  that  he  bit  the  impostor's 
hand  when  he  should  have  kissed  it,  it  is  evident  that 
he  delighted  in  his  villainous  adroitness,  in  the  splen- 
dour of  his  purple  and  gold,  in  the  pitiful  trick  of  the 
tamed  and  harmless  snake.  The  Dialogues  of 
Courtesans^  again,  had  fulfilled  their  admirable  pur- 
pose the  instant  they  were  written.  The  type,  with 
its  small  jealousies,  its  worldly  wisdom,  its  half-assumed 
timidity  has  never  been  more  skilfully  realised  ;  while 
the  mother,  fat,  careful,  of  no  age,  and  blousy  (you  are 
sure)  displays  the  same  eternal,  unchanging  qualities 
in  Lucian's  deHcate  prose  as  in  the  pictured  satire  of 
Forain.  So  the  erudite  philosopher  kept  his  sleepless 
eye  upon  life,  and,  for  all  his  learning,  turned  what- 
ever was  serious  into  merriment.  Not  even  did  he 
spare  the  gout,  which,  says  rumour,  carried  him  off  at 
last.  For  he  immortalised  the  universal  enemy  in  an 
admirable  burlesque,  whose  wit  should  have  procured 


LUCIAN  225 

him  a  grateful  release  from  pain.  But  doubtless  he 
despised  the  plague,  and  died,  as  he  lived,  a  satirist,  free 
and  frank,  without  wish  or  regret,  with  no  other  am- 
bition than  to  laugh  at  those  who  desire  the  unattain- 
able, and  yet  respect  philosophy. 


SIR   THOMAS   URQUHART 


SIR    THOMAS    URQUHART 

FROM  whichever  point  you  approach  Cromarty, 
you  seem  to  have  arrived  at  the  world's  end. 
You  may  drive  across  the  Black  Isle,  or  you  may 
enter  the  land-locked  harbour  in  a  casual  ferry-boat. 
But  you  can  go  no  further,  for  there  are  the  Suters  to 
bar  your  progress,  and  there  is  the  narrow  street 
leading  nowhither  to  remind  you  that  at  least  one 
county  town  is  remote  from  the  populous  highway. 
Its  aspect  is  ancient,  cold  and  grey,  and  yet  the 
enlarging  sea  has  compelled  the  new  town  again  and 
again  to  supersede  the  old,  so  that  it  is  less  time  than 
a  forgotten  fashion  which  gives  the  impression  of 
immemorial  solidity.  The  houses  are  trim  ;  trim  too 
are  the  gardens  ;  and  withal  marked  by  that  austerity 
which  should  defend  them  for  ever  from  the  reproach 
of  villadom.  An  alley,  dignified  with  the  name  of  the 
Vennel,  carries  the  traveller  far  back  into  the  past, 
while  the  dark  aspect  of  the  fisherfolk,  more  gipsy 
than  highlander,  proves  that  Cromarty  is  still  a  fast- 
ness. It  is  no  surprise  to  detect  over  the  red  lintel  of 
a  dilapidated  stable  the  scutcheon  of  those  brave  men 


230  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

who  once  were  hereditary  sheriffs  of  the  place  ;  you 
marvel  only  at  the  intermittent  golf-club,  which 
declares  that  no  corner  is  free  from  the  national 
scourge  ;  you  only  regret  that  the  sentiment  of  Hugh 
Miller  should  eclipse  the  glory  of  Sir  Thomas 
Urquhart.  But  neither  Hugh  Miller  nor  golf  can 
cheapen  Cromarty  nor  persuade  her  to  increase  her 
borders.  For  north  and  south  the  Suters  stretch 
seawards,  this  one  bleak  and  low-lying,  that  one 
lofty  with  its  coronal  of  trees,  and  rich  in  the 
mysteries  of  Witches'  Hole  and  Gallows'  Hill,  and 
either  resolute  to  oppose  encroachment.  From  the 
land  they  are  a  barrier  against  the  mastery  of  the  sea  ; 
from  the  sea  they  appear  sentinels  of  refuge — Swrrjjoecj 
so  Sir  Thomas  called  them — which  should  point  the 
path  of  safety  to  the  sailor  in  distress. 

Such  is  Cromarty,  which  boasts  to  have  given  birth, 
in  1605,  to  Sir  Thomas  Urquhart,  most  fantastical 
of  Scotsmen.  His  ancestors  had  been  hereditary 
sheriffs  and  proprietors  of  the  soil  for  twenty-two 
hundred  years  and  more,  if  we  may  trust  his  fearless 
imagination.  And  these  centuries  are  but  a  fringe 
upon  his  antiquity.  So  noble  a  conceit  had  he  in  the 
house  of  Cromarty,  that  he  traced  his  genealogy 
through  all  ages  and  all  countries  to  Adam  himself. 
There  are  no  great  cities,  and  few  great  families, 
which  did  not  aid  in  the  making  of  Sir  Thomas 
Urquhart,  and  all  are  set  forth  with  pride  and 
circumstance  in  the  TLavToxpovoxavov^  or  a  Peculiar 
Promptuary  of  Time.    The  effrontery  of  this  ingenious 


SIR   THOMAS   URQUHART         231 

piece  is  no  less  enchanting  than  its  simple  faith. 
The  author  twists  folk-lore  into  fact,  and  bombasts 
his  quick  invention  with  all  the  circumstance  of 
historical  research.  Doubtless  he  compiled  his  de- 
scent in  emulation  of  Pantagruel,  but  while  Rabelais 
laughed  at  his  own  pompous  imagination,  Sir  Thomas 
was  eager  to  believe  the  wildest  fiction,  and  to  forget 
that  he  had  not  written  authority  for  every  vain 
extravagance. 

Thus  Adam,  the  common  father  of  us  all,  "  sur- 
named  the  Protoplast,"  was  created  out  of  the  red 
earth,  merely  that  he  might  be  the  forbear  of  all 
the  Urquharts.  Better  still,  the  sixteenth  in  descent 
from  the  renowned  Protoplast,  one  Esormon,  son  of 
Pasiteles,  was  surnamed  ovpoxaprog  for  his  fortune  in 
the  wars  and  his  affable  conversation,  and  so  gave  his 
name  to  the  illustrious  family  whose  glory  culminated 
in  Sir  Thomas  Free  of  Speech.  Now  Esormon, 
albeit  he  was  born  in  the  year  before  Christ  two 
thousand  one  hundred  and  thirty-nine,  was  Prince  of 
Achaia,  and  had  for  his  arms  "three  banners,  three 
ships  and  three  ladies,  in  a  field  dor^  with  a  picture  of 
a  young  lady  above  the  waste,  holding  in  her  right  hand 
a  brandished  sword,  and  a  branch  of  myrtle  in  the  left, 
for  crest ;  and  for  supporters  two  Javanites  after  the 
souldier-habit  of  Achaia."  Thus  heraldry  flourished 
in  the  childhood  of  the  world,  and  it  is  no  surprise 
that  Molin,  the  fortieth  from  Adam,  married  Panthea, 
Deucalion's  daughter,  and  allied  the  Urquharts  with 
one  of  the  best  families  in  Greece.     A  century  later 


232  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Propetes  took  to  wife  Hypermnestra,  "the  choicest  of 
Danaus'  fifty  daughters,"  while  a  less  remote  ancestor 
espoused  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  that  no  talent  should  be 
lacking  to  the  perfected  Sir  Thomas. 

Some  thousand  years  before  Christ  you  touch  Scottish 
soil,  for  when  Alypos,  the  Queen  of  Sheba's  own  son, 
married  Proteusa,  the  sister  of  Eborak,  who  founded 
York,  Scotland  was  already  called  Olbion  (or  Albion  in 
the  Aeolick  dialect),  already  the  castle  of  Edinburgh 
frowned  upon  the  valley  where  Prince's  Street  was 
presently  to  be  built,  and  the  promontories  of  Cromarty 
had  won  the  name  of  SwTijptc,  which  they  retain  unto 
this  day.  But  the  Urquharts  had  not  yet  come 
into  their  own.  True,  Alypos  had  paid  a  casual  visit 
to  the  harbour  of  Ochonchar,  now  called  Cromarty,  and 
Beltistos,  the  seventy-sixth  in  descent  from  Adam, 
had  founded  the  castle  of  Urquhart  above  Inverness. 
But  it  was  reserved  for  the  honoured  Nomostor  to 
build  that  house  upon  the  South  Suter  which  remained 
for  two  thousand  years  the  home  of  the  Urquharts. 
Henceforth  these  heroes  remained  within  their  own 
borders,  fighting  the  Picts,  and  making  plain  their 
eloquence  to  all  the  world.  Neither  Lutork,  the  valiant 
conqueror  of  Lochaber,  not  the  famous  Stichopaeo 
himself,  neither  Sosomenos  nor  Eunoemon,  husband  of 
the  first  Morray  that  ever  came  to  Scotland,  strayed 
beyond  the  limits  of  Cromarty  and  its  fortress.  So  with 
Sir  Jasper,  who  had  the  dexterity  to  cure  the  King's 
Evil,  and  who  still  flourished  when  William  the  Norman 
invaded   England,   we  emerge   from    fable   into   the 


SIR  THOMAS   URQUHART  233 

semblance  of  history,  and  hear  with  a  mild  surprise 
that  Thomas,  born  1476,  was  surnamed  Paterhemon 
because  "he  had  of  his  wife  Helen  Abenethie,  a 
daughter  of  my  Lord  Salton,  five-and-twenty  sons,  all 
men,  and  eleven  daughters,  all  married  women." 
Far  more  puzzling  is  the  nickname  of  Walter,  Sir 
Thomas's  own  great-grandfather.  For  he  was  called 
"  Exaftallocrinus,"  for  no  better  reason  than  that  he 
judged  others  by  himself.  But  there  were  learned 
men  in  ancient  Cromarty,  and  instantly  the  real  Sir 
Thomas  was  called  to  the  throne  the  popular  voice 
acclaimed  him  Parresiastes,  or  Free  of  Speech,  after 
the  same  Greek  work  which,  says  Rabelais,  gave  to 
the  Parisians  their  name  and  title. 

With  such  a  pedigree  it  was  plainly  impossible  to 
remain  obscure,  and  Thomas  Urquhart  gave  early 
signs  of  the  scholarship  and  fancy  which  ever  dis- 
tinguished him.  After  a  boyhood  spent  in  the  castle, 
which  then  stood  upon  the  southern  Suter,  and 
devoted  doubtless  to  the  zealous  discovery  of  family 
secrets,  he  passed  to  the  University  of  Aberdeen,  for 
which  he  retained  a  ceaseless  respect  and  admiration. 
His  loyalty  bade  him  spare  no  occasion  of  praising 
those  who,  like  himself,  owed  their  education  to 
Aberdeen,  which,  said  he,  "  for  honesty,  good  fashions 
and  learning,  surpasseth  as  far  all  other  towns  and 
cities  in  Scotland,  as  London  doth  for  greatness, 
wealth,  and  magnificence,  the  smallest  hamlet  or 
village  in  England." 

And  so,  his  head  packed  with  all   the  knowledge 


234  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

of  his  time,  and  his  quick  hand  always  at  his  sword- 
hilt,  he  set  forth  upon  the  conquest  of  Europe.  In 
this  enterprise  he  followed  the  fashion  of  his  age  and 
country.  When  Urquhart  went  upon  his  travels  the 
whole  world  was  the  heritage  of  Scotland.  There 
was  no  University  that  did  not  seek  its  professors 
from  the  savage  country  beyond  the  Tweed,  and 
wherever  the  rumour  of  war  was  heard,  there  were  a 
a  hundred  Scots  ready  to  sell  their  sword  and  their 
life  in  the  service  of  the  foreigner.  While  Sinclair 
taught  mathematics  at  Paris,  Seaton  took  his  degrees  at 
Padua,  and  disported  his  "  lofty  and  bravashing  humour" 
at  Rome ;  Dempster  travelled  the  whole  length  of 
France  and  Italy,  teaching  the  humanities,  and  resent- 
ing with  his  right  arm  the  smallest  affront  put  upon 
his  dignity.  And  before  all,  Crichton,  the  glorious  and 
invincible  Crichton,  had  carried  away  the  palm,  whether 
for  scholarship  or  valour,  in  every  capital  in  Europe.  It 
was  in  emulation,  then,  of  such  heroes  as  these  that 
Thomas  Urquhart  left  his  native  Cromarty,  convinced 
that  no  learning  was  too  high  for  his  attainment,  no 
enemy  too  strong  for  his  assault.  Wherever  he  went, 
he  bore  himself  as  a  gallant  gentleman,  adding  to  the 
rare  store  of  his  learning,  and  winning  golden  opinions 
for  his  courage  and  address.  If  he  had  only  composed 
a  history  of  his  wanderings  instead  of  attempting  to 
square  the  circle,  how  rich  had  been  the  record  !  As 
it  is,  we  must  be  content  with  his  few  digressions,  and 
piece  together  a  slender  biography  from  a  handful 
of  casual  hints. 


SIR   THOMAS   URQUHART         235 

He  made  a  "  peragration  "  (so  he  calls  it)  of  France, 
Spain  and  Italy,  whence  he  crossed  to  Sicily,  and  was 
most  astonished  to  discover  at  Messina  a  man  who 
posed  for  the  Great  Alexander  of  Macedon.  Ever 
anxious,  despite  the  weight  of  his  immense  learning, 
to  recall  what  was  trivial  or  eccentric,  he  tells 
you  no  more  of  Madrid  than  that  he  there  saw  ''a 
bald-pated  fellow  who  believed  he  was  Julius  Caesar, 
and  therefore  went  constantly  in  the  street  with  a 
laurel-crown  on  his  head."  His  mastery  of  languages 
was  perfect ;  he  spoke  all  tongues  "  with  the 
liveliness  of  the  country  accent,"  and  there  was  no 
city  whereof  he  might  not  have  passed  for  a  native, 
had  not  his  patriotism  rejected  the  imposture.  Did 
a  Spaniard  or  a  Frenchman  suggest  the  disguise,  "  he 
plainly  told  them,  without  any  bones,  that  truly  he 
had  as  much  honour  by  his  own  country."  For 
in  those  days,  he  boasted,  "  the  name  of  a  Scot  was 
honourable  over  all  the  world,  and  the  glory  of  his 
ancestors  was  a  passport  and  safe  conduct  sufficient  for 
any  traveller."  Nor  did  Urquhart  do  aught  to 
besmirch  this  fair  fame.  He  was  as  prompt  in  a 
quarrel  as  in  the  exercise  of  his  tongue,  and  in  the 
early  years,  before  his  brains  "were  ripened  for 
eminent  undertakings,"  he  thrice  entered  the  lists 
to  vindicate  his  native  land  from  calumnies.  And 
thrice  he  disarmed  his  antagonist,  compelling  him 
at  the  price  of  his  life  to  acknowledge  his  error, 
so  that,  "in  lieu  of  three  enemies  that  formerly 
they  were,  I    acquired   three   constant  friends,  both 


236  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

to  myself  and  my  compatriots."  Thus  he  wandered 
over  the  world,  obeying  the  valiance  of  his  heart, 
and  yet  packing  his  head  with  all  the  jumbled 
and  intricate  sciences,  unrivalled  in  swordsmanship, 
and  always  alert  in  the  fashionable  art  of  disputation. 
But  so  strenuous  a  patriot  could  not  spend  his  life  in 
foreign  service,  and  Urquhart  was  still  young  when 
he  returned  a  finished  courtier  to  his  father's  house  in 
Cromarty. 

He  brought  with  him  a  library  which  he  valued 
beyond  all  else,  especially  because  it  did  not  contain 
three  books,  "which  were  not  of  his  own  purchase, 
and  all  of  them  together,  in  the  order  wherein  he 
had  ranked  them,  compiled  like  to  a  compleat  nosegay 
of  flowers,  which  in  his  travels  he  had  gathered  out 
of  the  gardens  of  above  sixteen  several  kingdoms." 
In  Cromarty,  indeed,  he  had  no  resource  but  study. 
A  courtier  and  a  scholar,  he  felt  as  little  sympathy 
with  field  sports  as  with  the  barbarous  life  of  his 
fellows.  While  others  were  pleased  in  the  dead 
season  of  winter  to  search  for  wild  fowl,  wading 
through  many  waters,  he  would  stay  at  home, 
employed  in  diversions  of  another  nature,  "such  as 
optical  secrets,  mysteries  of  natural  philosophy,  reasons 
for  the  variety  of  colours,  the  finding  out  of  the 
longitude,  and  the  squaring  of  the  circle."  And  when 
he  was  twitted  for  his  inaction  by  those  who  esteemed 
bodily  exercise  above  the  recreation  of  the  mind,  he 
had  the  satisfaction  of  supping  excellently,  while  the 
sportsmen  were  too  weary  to  touch  the  birds  which 


SIR   THOMAS   URQUHART         237 

had  fallen  to  their  guns.  So,  in  the  seclusion  of  his 
castle,  this  descendant  of  Danaus  became  the  master 
pedant  of  his  time.  Not  only  was  he  familiar  with 
all  the  extravagant  learning  of  Europe,  but  he  was 
already  busied  in  the  composition  of  those  unnumbered 
treatises  whose  loss  after  Worcester  fight  he  lamented 
until  his  death. 

Alas  !  an  end  soon  came  to  the  repose  which  is 
necessary  for  the  squaring  of  the  circle  or  the  discovery 
of  a  universal  language.  The  house  of  Urquhart  fell 
upon  ruin.  The  old  Sir  Thomas,  in  spite  of  the  oath 
given  to  Alexander,  Lord  Elphinstone,  on  his  marriage, 
that  he  would  hand  on  his  estate  unencumbered,  became 
the  sudden  prey  of  creditors.  The  reason  of  this 
disaster  is  uncertain  ;  but  it  was  rather  amiable  care- 
lessness than  wanton  extravagance  which  undid  the 
generous  and  worthy  knight.  He  had  given  to 
all  who  asked  with  thoughtless  prodigality  ;  he  had 
never  refused  to  be  surety  for  any  ;  yet  herein  his 
kindness  was  matched  by  good  fortune,  and  he  did 
not  "pay  above  two  hundred  pounds  English  for  all 
his  vadimonial  favors."  However,  his  creditors  at 
last  began  to  clamour.  With  a  recklessness  which 
you  can  easily  understand  in  the  father  of  his  son, 
he  had  neglected  his  household  and  forgotten  his 
tradesmen.  Unfaithful  servants  had  filched  much  of 
his  personal  estate  ;  swindling  baiHfFs  had  embezzled 
his  rents  ;  and  by  the  frequency  of  disadvantageous 
bargains  in  which  the  slyness  of  the  subtle  merchant 
involved    him,   his    loss   came   unawares   upon   him, 


238  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

and  irresistibly,  like  an  armed  man.  The  mishap 
was  the  stranger  because  in  the  arbitrament  of 
another's  affairs  none  was  held  so  wise  as  Sir  Thomas 
Urquhart ;  yet,  said  his  son,  he  thought  it "  derogating 
to  the  nobility  of  his  house  to  look  too  closely  into 
his  own  purse." 

The  result  was  ruin,  and  in  1637  the  hereditary 
Sheriff  of  Cromarty  was  so  hard  pressed  that  he 
was  forced  to  seek  relief  from  the  King.  The 
relief  was  granted  in  a  letter  of  protection  from 
Charles  I.,  which  defended  him  "from  all  diligence 
at  the  instance  of  his  creditors."  But,  in  the  mean- 
time, his  sons  had  taken  what  steps  they  might 
to  secure  the  remains  of  their  inheritance  ;  and  de- 
spite their  protestations  of  fiHal  obedience,  had  seized 
upon  their  father,  and  imprisoned  him  in  an  upper 
chamber  of  his  own  castle,  called  "  the  inner  dortour." 
Whether  they  resorted  to  this  savagery,  that  the  old 
knight  might  be  prevented  from  the  conclusion  of  a 
bad  bargain,  or  whether  they  were  impelled  by  dis- 
appointment and  revenge,  remains  unknown  ;  but  true 
it  is  that  they  kept  their  father  locked  up  the  best 
part  of  a  week,  and  that  they  only  escaped  the  proper 
consequence  of  their  cruelty  by  the  interposition  of 
the  Privy  Council.  And  notwithstanding  this  inter- 
lude of  enmity,  the  son  never  tired  of  praising  the 
justice,  honour,  and  munificence  of  the  father.  And 
you  like  to  think  that  his  solitary  fault  was  inspired  by 
a  stern  fidelity  to  the  interests  of  his  house. 

Henceforth  misfortune  was  his  constant  bedfellow. 


SIR   THOMAS   URQUHART         239 

Not  only  was  the  estate  encumbered  beyond  hope  of 
redress,  but  Urquhart,  a  staunch  Episcopalian,  stood 
for  the  King,  and  hated  the  Covenant  with  all  the 
fury  of  a  travelled  gentleman  and  a  pleasure-loving 
courtier.  Moreover,  he  was  neither  sufficiently 
cunning  to  dissemble  his  opinion,  nor  sufficiently 
dishonest  to  espouse  an  infamous  cause  for  his  own 
profit.  He  found  upon  his  own  country  the  three 
foul  blots  of  tergiversation,  covetousness  and  hypocrisy  ; 
and  he  exposed  the  blots  with  all  the  eloquence  and 
iteration  at  his  command.  Scotland,  said  he,  was 
ruined  by  the  selfishness  of  Kirks  and  Presbyteries. 
The  minister  was  always  the  greediest  man  in  the 
parish,  the  most  unwilling  to  bestow  anything  in 
deeds  of  charity.  He  denounced  without  ceasing 
the  democratical  tyranny  of  the  Kirk,  and  with 
all  the  Cavalier's  eagerness  to  back  his  opinion 
with  the  sword,  he  forcibly  opposed  Lord  Fraser  and  his 
allies.  A  retainer  of  his  house  was  the  first  to  lose  his 
life  in  conflict  with  the  bloody  Covenanters ;  and 
Urquhart,  having  marched  upon  Aberdeen,  was  circum- 
vented by  the  Earl  Marischal  after  a  brief  success, 
and  compelled  to  embark  in  the  presence  of  six  hundred 
enemies  for  Berwick-on-Tweed.  Henceforth  he  was 
exiled  to  the  English  court ;  two  years  later — in  1641 
— he  was  knighted  by  the  King  at  Whitehall,  and  the 
following  year  by  the  death  of  his  father  he  inherited 
a  worthless  estate,  and  with  the  Sheriffdom  of 
Cromarty  a  yet  more  worthless  title. 

Poor    and    unfriended,   he    despised    conciliation. 


240  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

He  whose  tongue  had  known  no  mercy  found  no 
mercy  in  the  hearts  of  his  enemies.  His  father  left 
him  but  a  poor  six  hundred  a  year,  and  for  encum- 
brances twelve  or  thirteen  thousand  pounds  of  debt, 
"  five  brethren,  all  men,  and  two  sisters  almost 
marriageable,"  with  as  fine  a  set  of  importunate 
creditors  as  ever  disturbed  a  scholar's  peace.  All 
attempts  at  a  settlement  were  frustrated  by  the  malice 
and  envy  of  merchants  and  money-lenders,  and  at 
the  last  Urquhart  had  no  resource  but  contempt 
and  vituperation.  How,  indeed,  should  this  arrogant 
gentleman,  this  marvel  of  the  perfections,  grant 
satisfaction  to  the  greed  of  scoundrels  ?  The  fiercest 
of  his  creditors  was  one  Leslie  of  Findrassie,  whose 
name  he  protests  he  will  never  mention,  but  whose 
name  is  rarely  ofF  his  tongue.  This  rascal,  who 
kept  "his  daughters  the  longer  unhusbanded  that 
they  might  serve  him  for  so  many  stalking-horses, 
whereby  to  intangle  some  neighbourhood  wood- 
cocks," pursued  the  Lord  of  Cromarty  with  an 
ingenuity  of  venom.  Not  only  did  he  decline  to 
treat  with  his  enemy  upon  any  terms,  but  he  at- 
tacked one  of  his  victim's  farms  with  all  the  horse 
and  foot  he  could  command.  He  even  attempted 
to  quarter  a  troop  upon  Sir  Thomas,  that  he  might 
the  more  quickly  bring  him  to  surrender.  Worse 
than  all,  he  contrived  the  seizure  of  his  library, 
and  the  destruction  of  not  a  few  manuscripts  which 
their  author  held  priceless.  But  fruitlessly  did 
Urquhart    bewail    that   the   wickedest    of  the    land 


SIR  THOMAS  URQUHART         241 

should  bie  permitted  to  possess  his  inheritance ; 
fruitlessly  did  he  deplore  the  sacrilege  of  those  who 
dismantled  the  honour  of  a  house  and  dilapidated 
an  ancient  estate.  Time  was,  said  he,  when  no 
stranger  might  own  an  ell  of  Scottish  land,  when 
even  Rizzio  was  not  permitted  to  purchase  a 
hundred  pounds  of  rent  whereby  to  acquire  a  tide. 
But  now  the  structure  of  ancient  grandeur  was 
"crumbled  into  the  very  rubbish  of  a  neophytick 
parity."  So  his  own  land  was  sequestrated,  and  if 
after  his  father's  death  he  pursued  his  studies  at 
Cromarty,  he  lived  rather  as  a  prisoner  than  as  a 
sheriff,  and  the  utmost  of  his  freedom  was  to  hold  all 
things  ready  for  a  siege. 

While  his  creditors  were  inexorable,  the  Kirk, 
which  had  many  an  ancient  offence  to  avenge,  did  not 
lag  behind  in  evil-doing.  At  the  outset  his  inherited 
right  of  patronage  was  curtailed,  and,  that  he  might  be 
the  more  heavily  embarrassed,  the  single  parish,  which 
contained  the  churches  of  Cullicudden  and  Kirkmichael, 
was  divided  into  two,  and  the  miserable  Urquhart 
compelled  to  provide  the  double  stipend.  His  protest 
was  as  vain  as  his  indignation.  To  fight  the  Kirk 
was  to  kick  against  the  pricks,  and  this  intrepid 
warrior  would  never  withdraw  an  unprotected  foot. 
His  arguments  in  his  own  behalf  were  convincing 
enough  to  ensure  failure,  and  yet  Sir  Thomas 
was  not  of  those  who  would  veil  the  truth  for  a 
present  advantage.  No,  he  boldly  proclaimed  himself 
Christianus    Presbyteromastixy   and   went   unflinching 

Q 


242  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

to  his  doom.  For  the  Kirk  and  State,  not  content 
with  stripping  him  of  his  goods,  carried  their  hostility 
still  further,  and  in  1649  ^^^  declared  him  rebel  and 
traitor. 

But  Urquhart,  like  Joseph  II.,  was  royaliste  de  son 
metier^  and,  though  he  regretted  his  bitter  spoliation, 
he  cared  not  that  the  world  called  him  rebel.  He 
threw  himself  with  the  greater  fury  into  the  fray, 
he  fought  the  last  fight  for  his  rightful  King,  and  he 
suffered  at  Worcester  the  culmination  of  his  disasters. 
For  not  only  was  Worcester  the  one  battle  wherein 
he  gave  ground  to  the  enemy,  but  in  the  kennels  of 
Worcester  City  he  lost  the  precious  manuscripts  which 
were  to  have  conferred  immortality  upon  him.  To 
this  ultimate  mishap  he  recurs  and  recurs,  though 
he  nowhere  explains  why  he  should  have  gone 
into  battle  with  the  work  of  a  lifetime  at  his  back. 
However,  no  sooner  was  the  fight  finished,  than  the 
victorious  soldiers  broke  into  Master  Spilsbury's  house 
("a  very  honest  man,  and  hath  an  exceeding  good 
woman  to  his  wife"),  and  there  found  three  port- 
mantles  full  of  very  precious  commodity,  or  in  other 
words  of  manuscripts  in  folio.  These  inestimable 
treasures  were  presently  devoted  to  the  packing  up 
of  "figs,  dates,  almonds,  caraway,  and  other  such 
like  dry  confections,"  to  the  kindling  of  tobacco  pipes, 
or  even  to  worse  employments.  A  few  fragments 
alone  were  saved,  from  which  Sir  Thomas  was  able  to 
rescue  such  treatises  as  remain.  But  with  the  defeat 
of  Worcester  his  active  life  was  finished.    What  could 


SIR  THOMAS   URQUHART  243 

he,  "  a  Scot  and  a  prisoner  of  war,"  make  or  mar  in 
the  London  of  the  Roundheads  ? 

Cromwell,    in    truth,    treated    him     with     more 
than  common  liberality,  permitting  him  to  print  his 
elaborate  vindication,  setting   him  free   upon  parole, 
and  "enlarging  him  to  the   extent   of  the   lines   of 
London's  communication."     For  all  these  courtesies 
he  is  properly  thankful,  and  he  closes  the  epilogue  of 
all  his  works  with  a  eulogy  of  Mr.  Roger  Williams. 
By  what  freak  of  destiny  the  reverend  preacher  of 
Providence  in    New  England  should    have  come  to 
Urquhart's  aid  is  left  unexplained,  but  certain   it  is 
that    this    monument    of   piety   not    only   presented 
Urquhart  with  "many  worthy  books   set   forth   by 
him,"   but    frequently   solicited   the    Parliament   and 
Council   of   State    in    his    behalf.     In    brief,   writes 
Sir   Thomas,   "he   did   approve    himself   a    man    of 
such  discretion  and  inimitably  sanctified  parts,  that 
an   archangel   from   Heaven   could   not   have   shown 
more    goodness   with    less   ostentation  ! "     But   Mr. 
Roger    Williams   solicited   in   vain,   and   the  victim 
himself  had   no  better  luck.     His   desperate   appeals 
to  Cromwell  for  the  restoration   of  his   estates   and 
for  his  unconditioned  liberty  failed.     Nor  was  there 
from  the  first   a  chance  of  success.     He  could   not 
cloak    his    loyalty    to    the    Stuarts,    even    when    he 
addressed  the  Lord  Protector;  and  so,  having  com- 
mitted   to    the   press  some  scraps  and   shreds  of  his 
dispersed   masterpieces,  he  escaped   the  vigilance   of 
his  warders,   set    sail    for    France,   the    country   he 


244  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

loved  so  well,  and  never  again  set  foot  in  Scotland. 
His  whimsical  death  well  suited  so  whimsical  a 
life.  He  died  of  laughter,  saith  rumour,  on  hearing 
that  Charles  II.  was  restored  to  his  kingdom. 
And  thus,  by  a  last  misfortune,  his  persistent  loyalty 
availed  him  nothing,  since,  at  the  very  moment  of 
victory,  his  sense  of  incongruity  carried  him  beyond 
the  hope  of  gratitude  or  reward.  Others  inherited 
the  estate  of  which  he  was  so  worthily  proud,  and 
even  in  Cromarty  itself  Urquhart  was  soon  the  shadow 
of  a  name. 

Despite  the  devastation  of  Worcester,  Sir  Thomas 
was  able  in  the  two  years  which  followed  the  battle  to 
prove  himself  not  only  the  greatest  translator  of  all 
time,  but  the  master  of  as  fantastic  a  style  as  ever 
came  to  the  aid  of  an  eccentric  imagination.  He  was 
not  new  to  authorship :  as  early  as  1641,  the  year  of 
his  knighthood,  he  had  dedicated  a  volume  of  Epigrams 
to  the  Marquis  of  Hamilton.  But  this  slender  volume 
gives  not  the  slightest  promise  of  talent.  The  sestets, 
which  fill  the  greater  part  of  the  book,  are  indis- 
tinguished  and  indistinguishable.  There  is  no  reason 
why  any  one  should  have  written  them.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  is  no  reason  why  any  one  should 
have  not.  They  express  the  usual  commonplaces : 
the  inevitableness  of  death  and  the  worth  of  endeavour. 
A  mildly  Horatian  sentiment  is  dressed  up  in  the 
tattered  rags  of  Shakespeareanism  ;  and  the  surprise  is 
that  the  author,  whose  prose  is  restrained  by  no  con- 
sideration of  sound  or   sense,  should  deem  it  worth 


SIR  THOMAS   URQUHART         245 

while  to  print  so  tame  a  collection  of  exercises.  His 
real  epigrams,  however,  are  still  in  manuscript,  and  are 
not  likely  to  get  into  print.  They  number,  it  is  said, 
some  eleven  hundred,  "  contryved,  clerked,  and  digested 
...  in  a  thirteen  weeks'  time,"  thus  arguing  in  the 
author  "a  great  maturity  and  promptnesse  of  wit."* 

Four  years  later  came  The  Trissotretras :  or  a  Most 
Exquisite  Table  for  resolving  all  manner  of  Triangles^  in 
which  the  greatness  of  Urquhart  is  already  foreshadowed. 
This  work, "  published  for  the  benefit  of  those  that  are 
mathematically  affected,"  is  reputed  unintelligible  even 
to  professors  of  mathematics,  but  it  is  prefaced  by  a 
dedication  "to  my  deare  and  loving  mother,"  and  a 
eulogy  of  that  "  brave  spark "  Lord  Napier  of  Mer- 
chiston,  which  are  composed  in  the  true  vein.  How- 
ever, it  was  not  until  defeat  had  stimulated  invention 
that  Urquhart  came  into  the  full  and  free  possession  of 
his  amazing  style.  The  'Eico-icu/BaXavpov,  or  the  Dis- 
covery of  a  most  exquisite  Jewel^  and  the  Logopandectei- 
sion^  or  an  Introduction  to  the  Universal  Language^  have 
not  their  counterpart  in  any  literature.  Though  the 
one  serves  "  to  frontal  a  vindication  of  the  honour  of 
Scotland,"  though  the  other  was  contrived  "  for  the 
utilitie  of  all  pregnant  and  ingenious  spirits,"  the  glorifi- 
cation of  Sir  Thomas  Urquhart  is  the  object  of  both. 

*  In  1683  this  manuscript  belonged  to  George  Ogilvie,  Master 
of  Banff,  and  afterwards,  according  to  Dr.  Irving,  who  was  fortu- 
nate enough  to  see  it,  it  passed  into  the  possession  of  Lord  Hynd- 
ford.  It  was  then  sold  for  £2^  los.,  and  became  the  property  of 
James  Gibson  Craig.  Some  time  since  it  figured,  for  the  modest 
sum  of  ;^io  los.,  in  the  catalogue  of  an  Edinburgh  bookseller. 


246  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

The  author  discusses  history  and  theology,  philosophy 
and  politics  ;  yet  all  the  sciences  are  but  a  cloak  to  his 
own  excellences.  Sir  Thomas  Urquhart  is  a  captive ; 
the  world  stands  idle  upon  its  axis,  the  sun  declines  to 
rise  and  set ;  liberate  Sir  Thomas,  and  the  universe  will 
resume  its  functions  ;  darkness  will  usurp  the  light 
at  the  proper  season,  and  the  brilliance  of  day  will 
succeed  to  the  sullen  obscurity  of  night.  But  in  one 
respect  his  modesty  conquered  his  ambition  of  notoriety, 
and  he  pretends  to  keep  the  secret  of  authorship  in- 
violate. The  ^EK(TKvj5a\avpov  is  written  with  the 
definite  aim  of  eulogising  Scotland  and  of  restoring 
the  great  and  good  Sir  Thomas  to  his  own  kingdom. 
And  who  wrote  it  ?  From  internal  evidence  it  is 
plainly  disinterested — for  Sir  Thomas  is  ever  belauded 
in  the  third  person.  Just  as  the  famous  pedigree,  that 
illustrious  TlavToxgovoxavov  which  gives  the  Knight  of 
Cromarty  Deucalion  for  an  ancestor,  was  rescued 
from  the  battlefield  by  "  a  surprising  honest  and  civil 
oflicer  of  Colonel  Pride's  regiment,"  and  prefaced  by 
an  unknown  and  mysterious  G.  P.,  so  the  vindica- 
tion of  Scotland  and  Sir  Thomas  might  have  been 
composed  by  a  partial  stranger.  The  object  is  frankly 
confessed :  "  He  is  the  only  man  for  whom  this 
book  is  intended,  the  mere  scope  whereof  is  the  fur- 
therance of  his  weal  and  the  credit  of  his  country." 
Again,  he  describes  himself  as  "  the  author  whose  muse 
I  honour,  and  the  strains  of  whose  pen  to  imitate  is 
my  greatest  ambition."  And  then,  weary  of  mystifica- 
tion he  boasts  with  an  engaging  frankness  "that  it 


SIR  THOMAS   URQUHART         247 

mentioneth  Sir  Thomas  Urquhart  in  the  third  person, 
which  seldom  is  done  by  any  author  in  a  treatise  of  his 
own  penning ! " 

But  in  truth  it  was  his  constant  fancy  to  cover 
reality  with  a  shield  of  romance,  and  to  defend  his 
purpose  with  perpetual  digression.  And  thus,  having 
designed  a  lofty  panegyric  of  himself  and  his  country, 
he  breaks  off — in  the  Exquisite  Jewel — into  a  brief 
description  of  his  Universal  Language.  But  he  re- 
veals no  more  than  shall  whet  the  public  appetite,  since 
he  desires  to  sell  his  invention  for  the  wealth  and 
leisure  which  should  justly  be  his.  The  secret  of 
learning  which  he  claims  to  have  discovered  will,  says 
he,  abridge  the  labour  of  scholars  by  two  years  out  of 
five,  a  benefit  which  cannot  be  estimated  at  less  than 
ten  thousand  pounds  a  year.  Nor  does  he  make 
appeal  to  the  generosity  of  Parliament.  If  only  the 
Lord  Protector  will  restore  to  him  the  inheritance 
which  the  "  cochlimatory  wasps "  of  the  Presbytery  have 
torn  from  him,  he  is  ready  to  devote  his  whole  life 
to  the  cause  of  learning,  and  to  the  manifest  embellish- 
ment of  the  Scottish  nation.  But  the  Lord  Protector 
was  not  tempted  to  interfere,  and  Sir  Thomas's  Lan- 
guage remains  a  vague  and  summary  sketch. 

The  praise  of  Scotland,  on  the  other  hand,  is  neither 
summary  nor  vague.  No  literature  in  the  world  can 
show  a  nobler  piece  of  boastfulness,  and,  despite  its 
elaborate  decoration,  it  is  an  historical  treatise  of 
enduring  value.  Now,  Sir  Thomas  had  witnessed 
the  supremacy  of  his  countrymen  both  in  the  schools 


248  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

and  in  the  tourney.  He  had  seen  the  discomfiture  of 
their  opponents  in  all  the  capitals  of  Europe,  and 
himself  had  carried  off  a  dozen  trophies.  None,  then, 
was  better  qualified  to  sing  the  praise  of  the  ever- 
renowned  Both  well,  or  to  applaud  the  prowess  of 
Francis  Sinclair,  the  valiant  bastard  of  Caithness,  who 
conquered  a  gallant  nobleman  of  High  Germany  in 
the  presence  of  the  Emperor  and  all  his  Court.  But 
the '  supreme  hero  of  all  time  in  Urquhart's  eye  was 
C  rich  ton,  Scotus  Jdmirabilis^  the  matchless  and  noble- 
hearted  warrior,  the  irresistible  lover,  the  miracle  of 
eloquence.  If  Sir  Thomas  failed  to  force  his  Uni- 
versal Language  upon  the  world's  acceptance,  he 
invented  that  which  was  far  more  wonderful :  the 
Admirable  Crichton.  A  single  episode,  dropped  by 
hazard  into  the  Exquisite  Jewel^  not  only  conferred 
legitimate  glory  upon  a  renowned  adventurer,  but 
fixed  for  all  time  the  type  ot  perfection.  His  achieve- 
ment at  the  Duke  of  Mantua's  Court ;  the  glorious 
victory  of  wit  snatched  from  the  thrice-renowned 
University  of  Paris  ;  his  brilliant  appearance  at  the 
Louvre  in  a  bufF  suit,  "  more  like  a  favourite  of  Mars, 
than  one  of  the  Muses'  minions,  where,  in  presence  of 
some  princess  of  the  Court,  and  great  ladies  that  came 
to  behold  his  gallantry,  he  carried  away  the  ring  fifteen 
times  on  end,  and  broke  as  many  lances  as  the 
Saracen  " — these  are  related  in  a  very  gust  of  enthu- 
siasm, and  with  a  breathless  torrent  of  strange  and 
lofty  words.  And,  then,  to  prove  that  bombast  was 
not  the  only  note  upon  his  lyre,  he  describes  with  a 


SIR   THOMAS   URQUHART  249 

veritable  pathos  the  death  of  Crichton  at  the  hands  of 
the  prince  whose  court  he  had  purged  of  a  monsten 
The  amplitude  -of  his  vocabulary  merely  quickens 
the  narrative  and  intensifies  the  emotion.  When 
Crichton  falls,  you  can  but  echo  the  frenzied  threnody 
of  the  princess,  w^ho,  "  rending  her  garments  and  tear- 
ing her  hair,  like  one  of  the  Graces  possessed  with  a 
Fury,  spoke  thus :  '  O  villains  !  what  have  you  done  ? 
you  vipers  of  men,  that  have  thus  basely  slain  the 
valiant  Crichton,  the  sword  of  his  own  sex,  and  the 
buckler  of  ours,  the  glory  of  this  age,  and  restorer  of 
the  lost  honour  of  the  Court  of  Mantua :  O  Crich- 
ton, Crichton  ! ' " 

Having  thus  chanted  the  excellences  of  Scotland, 
he  descends,  in  the  Logopandecteision^  to  a  nearer  con- 
sideration of  the  Universal  Language.  Yet  again  his 
pedantry  holds  him  but  a  moment,  and  he  is  soon 
inspired  to  an  elaborate  iteration  of  his  grievances. 
Never  was  a  grammatical  treatise  set  forth  with  a 
more  whimsical  parade  of  titles.  True,  the  first  book, 
styled  Neaudethaumatj^  is  concerned  with  the  wonders 
of  the  new  speech,  which  with  its  four  numbers  and 
eleven  genders  is  to  find  one  word,  and  one  only,  for 
each  idea,  and  to  teach  by  words  ''  in  the  matter  of 
colours  the  proportion  of  light,  shadow  or  darkness 
commixed  in  them."  But  he  soon  leaves  the  meaner 
theme  of  science  ;  and  so  far  is  he  from  grammar  in 
his  second  book,  that  it  is  intituled  Chrestasehe'ia^  or 
Impious  Dealing  of  Creditors^  and  thus  you  are  easily 
prepared  to  consider  the  Cleronomaporia^  or  the  Intricacy 


250  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

of  a  Distressed  Successor^  or  Apparent  Heir,  Once  again 
he  describes  the  innumerable  benefits  he  has  conferred, 
or  is  willing  to  confer,  upon  mankind  5  once  more  with 
the  honestest  indiscretion  he  proclaims  the  goodness 
and  grandeur  of  the  Stuarts,  while  he  denounces  with 
a  gasping  ferocity  the  infamous  machinations  of  all 
covenants  and  presbyteries.  With  greater  fulness 
than  ever  he  describes  his  baffled  ambitions.  "  I 
would  have  been,"  he  writes,  "a  Maecenas  to  the 
scholar,  a  pattern  to  the  soldier,  a  favorer  of  the  mer- 
chant, a  protector  of  the  tradesman  and  upholder  of 
the  yeoman,  had  not  the  impetuosity  of  the  usurer 
overthrown  my  resolutions,  and  blasted  my  aims  in 
the  bud." 

But  above  all  he  deplores  his  poverty  for  the  sake 
of  Cromarty.  The  disappointment  of  the  hope  he 
cherished  for  his  native  town  was  more  poignantly 
grievous  than  the  failure  of  the  Universal  Language  or 
the  loss  of  his  manuscripts  after  Worcester  fight.  If 
only  Sir  Thomas  had  entered  upon  an  unencumbered 
inheritance,  the  history  of  the  world's  commerce  would 
have  been  changed.  The  ships  of  all  nations  might 
have  sailed  between  the  protecting  Suters  into  that 
harbour,  where  in  the  wildest  hurricane  a  fleet  of  ten 
thousand  might  find  safe  anchorage.  Many  a  mer- 
chant adventurer  had  promised  to  send  his  richest 
argosies  to  Cromarty,  and  nothing  could  have  impeded 
the  success  of  the  project  save  the  baseness  of  Inver- 
ness. Was  not  Sir  Philbert  Vernati,  who  had  "a 
great  ascendant  in  counsel  over  all  the  adventurous 


SIR  THOMAS   URQUHART         251 

merchants  of  what  nation  soever,"  resolved  to  make 
the  fortune  of  Cromarty  and  its  sheriff?  On  every 
side  mines  would  have  been  open ;  the  pick  would 
have  been  heard  in  a  hundred  quarries.  Italy  would 
have  sent  northwards  her  best  skilled  artificers,  while 
"  men  of  literature  and  exquisite  spirits  of  invention  " 
would  have  taught  Cromarty  to  surpass  Aberdeen 
herself  in  poetry  and  learning.  But,  alas  !  Sir  Thomas 
Urquhart  was  not  allowed  to  aggrandise  his  estate. 
His  enemies  still  layiin  wait,  "  cannibal-like  to  swallow 
him  up  at  a  breakfast."  Inverness  looks  with  disdain 
upon  her  hapless  rival,  and  Cromarty  remains  to-day 
the  highland  village  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

Such  is  the  sum  of  Sir  Thomas  Urquhart's  original 
achievement,  and  the  style  in  which  his  treatises  are  com- 
posed falls  not  an  inch  below  his  ingenious  fancy.  Like 
many  another  Scot,  Hke  Hawthornden,  like  Thomson, 
like  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  he  wrote  English  as  a 
foreign  tongue,  which  he  had  acquired  after  painful 
effort.  You  cannot  read  a  page  without  being  convinced 
that  English  was  to  him  not  the  language  of  common 
speech,  but  a  strange  instrument,  which  at  the  touch 
of  a  master  should  yield  a  lofty  sounding  music.  The 
style  which  he  conquered  was  as  remote  from  his 
native  Scots  as  Greek  or  Latin,  and  he  decorated  it 
with  a  curious  elaboration,  which  proves  that  he 
recognised  the  difference  between  literature  and  con- 
versation. There  is,  perhaps,  a  touch  of  pedantry 
in  his  scrupulous  avoidance  of  Scottish  words.  A 
diligent  search  has  revealed  but  one,  and  the  avoidance 


252  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

is  the  more  remarkable  because  he  had  no  aversion  to 
the  slang  and  proverbs  of  the  street.  But  the fytings^ 
those  masterpieces  of  Amoebean  scurrility,  which 
doubtless  he  knew  well  and  which  encouraged  his 
habit  of  stringing  synonyms,  exerted  no  more  than  a 
general  influence  upon  him,  and  this  influence  is  more 
noticeable  in  his  Rabelais  than  in  his  original  treatises. 
His  vocabulary  is  vast  and  various;  he  pilfered  a  dozen 
languages  and  all  the  sciences  that  he  might  enlarge 
it ;  nor  does  he  ever  hesitate  to  invent  such  words  as 
are  lacking  to  his  purpose.  He  frankly  avows  his 
detestation  of  what  is  common  or  obvious.  Where 
others  would  employ  a  paraphrase,  he  is  quick  to  invent 
so  new  a  term  as  scripturiency  or  nixurience,  "  Pre- 
face "  being  without  significance,  he  prefers  (after 
Mathurin  Regnier)  "epistle  liminary"  ;  and  in  the 
use  of  such  strange  compounds  as  accresce  he  is 
as  ingenious  as  the  decadents  of  ten  years  ago. 
Moreover,  he  defends  his  practice  in  a  passage  which 
will  serve  as  a  plea  for  a  free  vocabulary  :  "  that  which 
makes  this  disease  (the  paucity  of  words)  the  more 
incurable  is  that,  when  an  exuberant  spirit  would  to 
any  high  researched  conceit  adapt  a  peculiar  word  of 
his  own  coining,  he  is  branded  with  incivility,  if  he 
apologise  not  for  his  boldness  with  a  quod  ita  dixer'im^ 
par  cant  Cicerontana  manes  ^  tgmscat  Demosthenis 
genius^  and  other  such  phrases,  acknowledging  his 
fault  of  making  use  of  words  never  uttered  by  others, 
or  at  least  by  such  as  were  most  renowned  for  elo- 
quence."    And  he  assuredly  asks  no  pardon  from  the 


SIR  THOMAS   URQUHART  253 

shade  of  Cicero,  but  straightway  declares  that  the 
Indians  "were  very  temulencious  symposiasts,"  while 
presently  he  proceeds  to  denounce  the  mean  as  "  clus- 
ter-fists," and  to  reproach  the  Presbyterians  with  their 
"blinkard  minds." 

His  style,  again,  was  curiously  shaped  by  his  study 
of  science,  and  mathematical  metaphors  are  found 
on  every  page.  Thus  he  describes  the  effect  of  Crich- 
ton's  apparition  :  "  The  affections  of  the  beholders,  like 
so  many  several  diameters  drawn  from  the  circum- 
ference of  their  various  intents,  did  all  encounter  in 
the  point  of  his  perfection."  On  the  other  hand  no 
artifice  is  too  familiar,  if  his  mood  be  flippant.  "  How 
now,  pescods  on  it !  "  he  cries  when  he  has  forgotten 
a  name ;  or  he  will  confuse  a  piece  of  new-fangled 
science  with  the  slang  of  the  minute.  And  you  can 
forgive  a  writer  a  dozen  faults  who  calls  his  enemy  a 
"pristinary  lobcock."  Moreover,  he  has  a  constant 
care  for  the  rhythm  of  his  prose ;  he  wrote  with  his 
ear  as  well  as  with  his  brain,  and  knew  well  how  to 
set  his  periods  to  music.  Where  the  poor  apostle  of 
simplicity  at  any  price  would  write  "  backgate,"  Sir 
Thomas  prefers  "  some  secret  angiport  and  dark 
postern  door  ; "  and  the  advantage  both  for  sound  and 
expression  is  on  the  side  of  Sir  Thomas.  From  so 
vast  a  volume  of  eloquence  it  is  difficult  to  select,  but 
this  reproof  of  the  Presbyterians  for  their  treatment  of 
kings  displays  the  more  modest  qualities  of  Urquhart's 
prose  :  "  For  of  a  king  they  only  make  use  for  their 
own   ends,  and   so  they   will  of  any  other  supreme 


254  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

magistracy  that  is  not  of  their  own  erection.     Their 
kings  are  but  as  the  kings  of  Lacedaemon,  whom  the 
Ephors  presumed  to  fine  for  any  small  offence;  or  as 
the  puppy  kings  which  after  children  have  trimmed 
with  bits  of  taffeta,  and  ends  of  silver  lace,  and  set 
upon  wainscoat  cupboards  beside  marmalade  and  sugar- 
cakes,  are  oftentimes  disposed  of,  even  by  those  that 
did  pretend  so  much  respect  unto  them   for  a  two- 
penny custard,  a  pound  of  figs,  or  a  mess  of  cream." 
But  he  is  not  always  thus  restrained  ;  he  is  apt  to 
forget  proportion,  or,  in  his  own  simile,  to  put  such  a 
"porch  upon  a  cottage  as  better  befits  a  cathedral." 
Yet  he  would  be  punctilious  in  his  adaptation  of  words 
to  thoughts.     The  conclusion  of  the  Exquisite  Jewel^ 
the  most  complicated  rhapsody  in  English  prose,  is 
nothing  else  than  an  apology  for  its  simple  reticence. 
"  I  could,"  he  confesses,  "  have  enlarged  this  discourse 
with  a  choicer  variety  of  phrase,  and  made  it  overflow 
the  field  of  the  reader's  understanding,  with  an  inun- 
dation of  greater  eloquence.  ...  I  could  have  intro- 
duced, in  case  of  obscurity,  synonymal,  exargastick, 
and  palilogetick  elucidations  ;  for  sweetness  of  phrase, 
antimetathetick  commutations  of  epithets."     But   he 
quenched  his  ardour  ;  he  "  adhibited  to  the  embellish- 
ment of  his  tractate  "  none  of  these  tropes  or  figures, 
because  for  the  moment  "  the  matter  was  more  preva- 
lent with  him  than  the  superficial  formality  of  a  quaint 
discourse."     In  such  wise  does  he  formulate  his  the6ry 
of  the  relation  of  sound  to  sense,  and  if  you  did  not 
recognise  the   sincerity   of  his   humour,  you   might 


SIR   THOMAS  URQUHART         255 

believe  that  for  once  he  was  laughing  at  his  reader's 
innocence. 

Never  once  in  all  his  works  does  he  mention 
Rabelais,  though  in  his  astounding  genealogy  as  in  his 
extravagant  diction  he  pays  him  the  compliment  of 
imitation.  Yet  it  is  to  his  translation  of  Gargantua 
and  Pantagruel  that  Urquhart  owes  his  immortality, 
and  surely  no  man  better  deserves  the  wreath  of  un- 
dying fame.  His  masterpiece  shares  the  honour  with 
our  own  Authorised  Version  of  being  the  finest  transla- 
tion ever  made  from  one  language  into  another.  The 
English  lacks  none  of  the  abounding  life  and  gaiety 
which  make  the  original  a  perpetual  joy.  In  fact  it 
is  not  a  translation  at  all :  had  Rabelais  been  a  Briton, 
it  is  precisely  in  these  terms  that  he  would  have 
written  his  golden  book.  It  might  have  been  com- 
posed afresh,  as  was  the  original  "  in  eating  and  drink- 
ing." The  very  spirit  of  Rabelais  breathes  again  in 
this  perfect  version,  which,  without  the  dimmest 
appearance  of  effort,  echoes  the  very  rhythm  of  the 
French,  and  for  all  its  ingenuity  of  phrase  and  proverb, 
resolutely  respects  the  duty  of  interpretation.  But 
failure  was  impossible  from  the  beginning:  once  in 
the  history  of  the  world  a  master  of  language  found 
the  task  for  which  his  genius  was  eminently  adapted. 

In  point  of  style,  Urquhart  was  Rabelais  reincarnate. 
If  Master  Alcofribas  handled  a  vocabulary  of  surpass- 
ing richness.  Sir  Thomas,  the  most  travelled  man  of 
his  age,  had  stored  his  memory  with  the  pearls  of  five 
languages.      Science  and  slang  were  the  hobbies  of 


256  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

each,  and  both  Scot  and  Frenchman  were  as  quick  to 
find  his  metaphors  in  the  gutter  as  to  gather  them 
after  thoughtful  research  in  the  solemn  treatises  of  the 
middle  age.  But  above  all,  it  is  in  his  treatment  of  slang 
that  Urquhart  shows  his  supremacy.  His  courage  is 
as  great  as  his  knowledge,  and  bookish  as  he  was,  he 
kept  his  ears  always  alert  to  the  quick  impressions 
of  the  street.  The  Puritan,  who,  finding  not  enough 
immorality  in  life  to  glut  his  censure,  invests  simple 
words  with  vice,  has  wreaked  his  idle  fury  on  the  dead  Sir 
Thomas,  and  more  than  once  has  dragged  his  master- 
piece into  the  malefactor's  dock.  But  the  masterpiece 
remains  to  defy  the  Puritan,  as  it  defies  the  critic,  and 
it  is  no  less  assured  of  eternity  than  its  magnificent 
original.  To  belaud  its  perfection  is  to  confess  its 
blemishes,  yet  its  blemishes  lean  ever  to  the  side  of 
excellence.  Though  Urquhart  crept  into  the  very 
skin  of  Rabelais,  at  times  the  skin  sits  a  little  tightly 
upon  him.  He  outdoes  Rabelais  even  in  extravagance, 
thereby  achieving  what  might  have  seemed  a  plain 
impossibility.  When  the  master  exhausts  every  corner 
of  human  knowledge  or  human  life  in  a  list  of 
synonyms,  Urquhart  is  always  ready  to  increase  the 
list  from  the  limitless  depths  of  his  own  research. 
One  list  of  thirteen  he  has  expanded  to  thirty-six  ; 
another  famous  chapter  he  has  doubled  in  length  ;  and 
yet  every  line  bears  the  true  impress  of  Rabelais. 
Again,  at  times  he  is  apt  to  explain  rather  than  to 
interpret ;  but  his  explanation  is  so  rigidly  within  the 
boundaries  of  the  original,  that  not  even  the  pedant 


SIR  THOMAS   URQUHART  257 

can  find  heart  to  protest.  As  for  his  mistakes,  they 
are  condoned  by  their  magnificence  ;  and  if  now 
and  then  he  says  what  Rabelais  did  not,  you  wonder 
which  has  the  better  of  it,  the  original  or  the  version. 

Like  all  great  works,  Urquhart's  translation  had 
its  forerunner ;  and  its  forerunner  was  Randle  Cot- 
grave,  without  whose  superb  dictionary  *  the  Rabelais 
might  never  have  been  accomplished.  It  is  the 
common  superstition  of  the  schools  that  the  use  of  a 
dictionary  is  fatal  to  the  acquisition  of  a  full  and  free 
vocabulary.  Yet  here  is  Urquhart,  whose  eccentric 
vocabulary  has  never  been  surpassed,  working  with  a 
dictionary  at  his  elbow.  Now,  Cotgrave's  "  bundle  of 
words,"  as  his  modesty  styles  it,  contains  such  fagots  as 
never  before  were  collected  by  mortal  man.  No  wonder 
his  French  colleague  declares  that  he  had  read  books 
of  every  kind  and  in  every  dialect,  nor  is  it  strange 
that,  writing  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  he  should  have  made  a  generous  use  of 
Rabelais.  But  he  was  one  of  those  to  whom  words 
are  living,  breathing  things,  with  colour  and  character 
of  their  own,  and  his  dictionary,  which  Shakespeare 
may  have  used,  can  still  be  read  with  the  rapidity 
and  excitement  of  a  romance.  In  his  love  of 
synonyms,  he  rivalled  Urquhart ;  like  Urquhart,  he 
would  never  content  himself  with  one  word  when 
twenty  were  available.    A  famous  naturalist,  he  helped 

*  A  Dictionarie  of  the  French  and  English  Tongues.  Compiled 
by  Randle  Cotgrave.  London :  Printed  by  Adam  Islip.  Anno 
1611. 

R 


258  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

the  translator  at  the  point  wherein  his  weakness  was 
most  palpably  confessed,  and  the  names  of  strange 
birds  and  beasts  may  easily  be  traced  to  their  authentic 
source. 

Cotgrave,  moreover,  packs  into  his  book — this 
"verball  creature,"  and  indeed  it  is  "a  creature,"  a 
living  thing — all  the  folklore  and  superstition  of  his 
age  -y  and  here  again  he  was  a  sure  guide  to  the 
footsteps  of  Urquhart.  But  Urquhart  followed  him 
even  in  his  errors.  To  quote  an  example  :  "  friar 
John  of  the  Funnels"  is  at  least  as  celebrated  as 
*'  frere  Jean  des  Entommeures,"  and  you  wonder  where 
Urquhart  found  his  false  translation,  until  you  con- 
sult the  page  of  Cotgrave,  which  refers  you  from 
Entommeure  to  Entonnoir^  which  being  interpreted  is  a 
funnel.  And  thus  it  is  that  in  English  friar  John 
takes  the  title,  which  he  will  never  lose,  not  from  the 
"  cuttings  "  or  "  carvings,"  but  from  the  Funnels.  Of 
Cotgrave  himself  we  know  nothing,  save  that  he 
dedicated  his  dictionary  to  "  the  Right  Honourable,  and 
my  very  good  Lord  and  Maister,  Sir  William  Cecil, 
Knighty  Lord  Burghley,  and  sonne  and  heire  apparant 
unto  the  Earle  of  Exceter."  But  never  in  any 
enterprise  were  three  masters  so  admirably  matched  as 
these  three :  Rabelais,  Cotgrave,  Urquhart.  And 
who  shall  say  which  of  the  three  within  his  limits  was 
the  greatest  ? 

Urquhart  translated  Rabelais,  and  had  they  been  of 
the  same  century  Rabelais  would  have  flouted  the 
hero,  who  gave  him  a  second  life.     For  as  in  style 


SIR   THOMAS  URQUHART  259 

Urquhart  was  the  last  of  the  Elizabethans,  so  in 
science  he  resumed  the  fallacies  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
He  regarded  with  a  childish  reverence  the  many 
problems,  at  which  Rabelais  laughed  from  the  comfort- 
able depth  of  his  easy  chair.  And  there  is  a  delightful 
irony  in  the  truth,  that  this  perfect  translator  was  in 
his  own  original  essays  nothing  else  than  Rabelais 
stripped  of  humour.  He  would  discuss  the  inter- 
minable stupidities  of  the  schoolmen  with  a  grave  face 
and  ceaseless  ingenuity.  He  had  no  interest  in  aught 
save  the  unattainable.  To  square  the  circle  and 
perfect  the  Universal  Language  were  the  least  of  his 
enterprises.  And  here  we  touch  the  tragedy  of  his 
life.  He  was  like  the  man  he  met  at  Venice,  "  who 
believed  he  was  sovereign  of  the  whole  Adriatic  Sea, 
and  sole  owner  of  all  the  ships  that  came  from  the 
Levant."  His  madness — for  it  was  nothing  less — 
inspired  him  with  the  confidence  that  all  things  were 
possible  to  his  genius.  He  was  Don  Quixote  with 
a  yet  wilder  courage.  "I  do  promise,"  he  says 
somewhere,  "shortly  to  display  before  the  world 
ware  of  greater  value  than  ever  from  the  East  Indies 
was  brought  in  ships  to  Europe  "  ;  and  straightway  he 
pictures  himself  another  Andromeda,  chained  to  the 
rock  of  hard  usage,  and  exposed  to  the  merciless 
dragon  usury,  beseeching  "  the  sovereign  authority  of 
the  country,  like  another  Perseus  mounted  on  the 
winged  Pegasus  of  respect  to  the  weal  and  honour 
thereof,  to  relieve  us,  by  their  power,  from  the 
eminent  danger  of  the  jaws  of  so  wild  a  monster." 


26o  STUDIES   IN  FRANKNESS 

But,  despite  his  madness,  he  was  in  many  aspects  wise 
beyond  the  wisdom  of  his  generation.     When  all  the 
world  was  resolute  in  the  persecution  of  witches,  he 
looked   upon   witchcraft   with    a   sensible   scepticism 
worthy  of  Reginald  Scot.     He  would  leave  all  men 
free  to  speculate  in  theology  ;  for,  says  he,  every  one,  if 
he  be   sincere,   will    confess   that   he    has   his   own 
religion.     Even  in  his  discourse   upon  the  Universal 
Language  there  is  many  a  generalisation,  which,  when 
set   forth  many  years  after  by  Lord  Monboddo  and 
others,   was    deemed   a   marvel   of  intelligence.      In 
politics,  above  all,  he  was  inspired  to  a  noble  patri- 
otism.    He  insisted  with  all  his  eloquence  upon  the 
union    of  England   and   Scotland.     He   would   have 
compelled  the  general  use  of  Great  Britain  for  a  title, 
and  he  pleaded  that  Scots  should  find  the  same  equal 
privileges  in    London,   which   had    long   since   been 
granted   them   by   the    city   of  Paris.      Withal    his 
character    was    gay,   sanguine,    and    honourable,   as 
George   Glover,  who   drew   him   from  the  life,  has 
worthily  suggested.     The  portrait,  indeed,  is   rarely 
characteristic    of  Urquhart's   elegance    and   foppery. 
The  pose  declares  the  happy  assurance  of  a  hero,  half- 
duellist,  half-orator,  as  quick  to  use  his  tongue  as  his 
sword,  while  the  huge  rosettes,  emphasised  by  a  slim 
figure,  are  at  once  the  symbol  and  the  measure  of  the 
Cavalier's    vanity.     But    for   all  his   vanity   he   was 
so  honest  a  gentleman,  that  he  would  never  change 
an    opinion    for    the    sake   of    profit,   and    persisted 
in  his  just  condemnation  of  the  Kirk  and  Parliament, 


SIR   THOMAS   URQUHART  261 

even  when  he  was  suing  his  enemies  for  their  con- 
sideration. Of  his  amiability  and  courage  there  is  no 
doubt.  With  characteristic  candour  he  declares  that 
he  has  never  coveted  the  goods  of  any  man  ;  he  has 
never  violated  the  trust  reposed  in  him  ;  he  has  given 
ground  to  no  enemy  before  the  day  of  Worcester. 
That  he  is  surnamed  Parresiastes,  or  Free  of  Speech,  is 
his  favourite  boast ;  for  he  loves  ever  to  be  open-hearted 
and  of  an  explicit  discourse.  What  wonder  is  it,  then, 
that  in  the  triumph  of  traitors  and  covenants,  he  should 
have  been  easily  discomfited  ? 

He  left  no  school,  and  only  one  imitator  :  the  Earl 
of  Worcester,  hapless  and  ingenious  as  himself.  This 
nobleman  echoed  the  career  of  Urquhart  perforce,  and 
echoed  of  set  purpose  his  language  and  research.  He, 
too,  met  ruin  on  Worcester  field  ;  he,  too,  spent  his 
eloquence  in  the  hopeless  demand  for  liberty,  a  favour 
which  he  too  would  have  repaid  by  discoveries  no 
less  marvellous  than  the  new  language.  Freedom 
for  him  meant  the  discovery  of  the  steam-engine  and 
a  revolution  in  the  art  of  war ;  and  he  pleaded  for 
freedom  in  the  very  terms  used  by  Urquhart.  He, 
too,  had  lost  his  notes,  and  the  title  of  the  treatise  * 
which  he  was  not  permitted  to  publish,  and  which  he 
also  valued  at  many  thousands  of  pounds,  might  have 
been  composed  by  the  author  of  the  Exquisite  Jewel. 

*  Thus  it  runs :  "  A  century  of  the  Names  and  Scantlings  of  such 
Inventions,  as  at  present  I  can  call  to  mind  to  have  tried  and 
perfected  (my  former  notes  being  lost)  " — with  much  more  to  the 
same  purpose. 


262  STUDIES   IN   FRANKNESS 

Thus  a  single  generation  produced  these  two  menjwhose 
eccentric  genius  and  unmerited  misfortune  give  them  a 
place  apart  in  the  history  of  the  world.  Urquhart's 
misery  is  the  more  acute,  for  the  greater  height  of  his 
aspirations.  His  life  was  marred  by  broken  ambitions, 
and  made  by  one  surpassing  masterpiece.  His  mani- 
fold schemes  of  progress  and  of  scholarship  died  with 
the  brain  which  they  inhabited.  The  Italian  artificers 
and  French  professors  whom  he  bade  to  Cromarty 
never  obeyed  the  invitation  ;  the  castle  which  once 
stood  upon  the  South  Suter  was  so  fiercely  demo- 
lished, that  the  place  of  its  foundation  is  left  unmarked. 
The  vulgar  reputation  of  Hugh  Miljer  has  persuaded 
the  town,  whereof  Sir  Thomas  was  sheriff,  to  forget 
that  it  was  the  birthplace  of  a  great  man.  But  the 
translation  of  Rabelais  remains,  and  that  will  only  die 
with  the  death  of  Pantagruel  himself. 


Printed  by  Ballantyne,  Hanson  <5r»  Co. 
London  &>  Edinburgh 


OVERDUE.  *'°°    °N    THE    SE^ent"""'^" 


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